ALVMNVS  BOOK  FVND 


TROPICAL    TOWN 

AND  OTHER   POEMS 


TROPICAL  TOWN 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

SALOMON  DE  LA  SELVA 


NEW  YORK:    JOHN   LANE   COMPANY 

LONDON:  JOHN  LANE,  THE  BODLEY  HEAD 

MCMXVIII 


Copyright,  1918, 
BY  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


A 
MI  MADRE 

PORQUE   POSEE   LA  VIRTUD 

DE   FECUNDIDAD   Y  DE  RESIGNACldN 

QUE  ES  LA  DE  MI   PATRIA 


393765 


Thanks  are  due  to  the  editors  of  the 
Century,  Harper's  Monthly  and  the 
Pan  American  Magazine,  of  New  York; 
Poetry,  of  Chicago;  Contemporary  Verse, 
of  Philadelphia,  and  the  Militia  of 
Mercy  (editors  of  The  Defenders  of 
Democracy)  for  their  kind  permission 
to  include  in  this  volume  verses 
which  they  originally  published.  The 
Dreamer's  Heart  Knows  Its  Own  Bitter 
ness  was  written  for  and  read  at  the 
Pan  American  Reception  of  the  Joint 
Committee  of  the  Literary  Arts  on  Febru 
ary  the  seventh,  nineteen  hundred  and 
seventeen. 


CONTENTS 

MY  NICARAGUA 

TROPICAL  TOWN 11 

TROPICAL  HOUSE 12 

TROPICAL  PARK 14 

TROPICAL  MORNING 15 

GUITAR  SONG  WITH  VARIATIONS 17 

TROPICAL  DANCE 21 

THE  MIDGET  MAIDEN 22 

THE  GIRL  THAT  WAS  WISE 23 

TROPICAL  RAIN 24 

THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE  OF  LEON 25 

A  SONG  FOR  WALL  STREET 27 

TROPICAL  AFTERNOON 28 

TROPICAL  LIFE 29 

ALL  SOUL'S  DAY 30 

TROPICAL  CHILDHOOD 31 

BIRDS  OF  CLAY 32 

BODY  AND  SOUL 33 

MY  NICARAGUA 35 

THE  DREAMER'S  HEART  KNOWS  ITS  OWN  BITTER 
NESS  38 


IN  NEW  ENGLAND  AND  OTHER  LYRICS 

DELIVERANCE 47 

PORTRAIT 48 

THE  SECRET 49 

CONFIDENCES 50 

FINALLY 51 

MEASURE 55 

INMATE 56 

SONG  OF  THE  MAGDALEN 57 

CELLINI  AT  THE  METROPOLITAN  MUSEUM     ...  58 

vii 


CONTENTS 

THREE  SONGS  MY  LITTLE  SISTER  MADE: 

Make-Believe 60 

Pennies 61 

Moonrise 62 

SONNET 64 

COURTSHIP 65 

THREE  SONGS: 

Tryst 66 

Worn  Toy 66 

The  Birch  Tree 66 

IN  WAR  TIME 

A  PRAYER  FOR  THE  UNITED  STATES 71 

HATRED 72 

DECEMBER  1916 73 

DRILL 74 

ODE  TO  THE  WOOLWORTH  BUILDING 78 

THE  KNIGHT  IN  GRAY   .  83 


THE  TALE  FROM  FAERIELAND 

PASTORALE 87 

THE  TALE  FROM  FAERIELAND 88 

To  A  YOUNG  MAN 94 

THE  Box  OF  SANDALWOOD  (TEN  SONNETS)   ...  94 

CANDLE  LIGHT 101 

FLEUR  D'OR 102 

SONG  OF  THE  POPPY 103 

SONG  OF  THE  POPPY'S  LOVER ,  104 

ARIA  iNG 105 

THE  SWORD  OF  WONDER 106 

FIRST  LOVE  REVIVED  (SEVEN  SONNETS)  ....  110 

THE  LITTLE  FOXES 115 

viii 


CONTENTS 

THE  SORRY  MADRIGAL 116 

"I  WOULD  BE  TELLING  You" 117 

"HER  WISH  WAS  THAT  MYSELF  SHOULD  BE"   .     .  118 
To  THOSE  WHO  HAVE  BEEN  INDIFFERENT  TO  THE 

PAN- AMERICAN  MOVEMENT 119 

"On  GLORIOUS  SPENDTHRIFT  JOY!" 120 

THE  MODERN  EVE 123 

JOY 124 

HUNGER  IN  THE  CITY 125 

THE  MAKER  OF  RED  CLAY  JARS 126 

DELGADINA 128 

OF  TIME  AND  SONG  .  132 


MY  NICARAGUA 


TROPICAL  TO WN  .: 

BLUE,  pink  and  yellow  houses,  and,  afar, 
The  cemetery,  where  the  green  trees  are. 

Sometimes  you  see  a  hungry  dog  pass  by, 
And  there  are  always  buzzards  in  the  sky. 
Sometimes  you  hear  the  big  cathedral  bell, 
A  blindman  rings  it;  and  sometimes  you  hear 
A  rumbling  ox-cart  that  brings  wood  to  sell. 
Else  nothing  ever  breaks  the  ancient  spell 
That  holds  the  town  asleep,  save,  once  a  year, 
The  Easter  festival.  .  .  . 

I  come  from  there, 

And  when  I  tire  of  hoping,  and  despair 
Is  heavy  over  me,  my  thoughts  go  far, 
Beyond  that  length  of  lazy  street,  to  where 
The  lonely  green  trees  and  the  white  graves  are. 

For  Miss  Eugenia  L.  V.  Gdsenheimer. 


11 


TROPICAL  HOUSE 

WHEN  the  Winter  comes,  I  will  take  you  to 

Nicaragua, — 
You  will  love  it  there! 

You  will  love  my  home,  my  house  in  Nicaragua, 
So  large  and  queenly  looking,  with  a  haughty  air 
That  seems  to  tell  the  mountains,  the  mountains 

of  Nicaragua, 
— "You  may  roar  and  you  may  tremble,  for  all 

I  care!" 

It  is  shadowy  and  cool; 

Has  a  garden  in  the  middle  where  fruit-trees 

grow, 

And  poppies,  like  a  little  army,  row  on  row, 
And  jasmine  bushes  that  will  make  you  think  of 

snow, 
They  are  so  white  and  light,  so  perfect  and  so 

frail, 
And  when  the  wind  is  blowing  they  fly  and  flutter ' 

so! 

The  bath  is  in  the  garden,  like  a  sort  of  pool, 
With    walls    of   honey-suckle    and    orchids    all 

around. 
The  humming-bird  is  always  making  a  sleepy 

sound. 
In  the  night  there's  the  Aztec  nightingale. 


But  when  the  moon  is  up,  in  Nicaragua, 
The  moon  of  Nicaragua  and  the  million  stars, 
It's  the  human  heart  that  sings,  and  the  heart  of 

Nicaragua, 
To  the  pleading,  plaintive  music  of  guitars. 

For  Senorita  Maria  Teresa  Moreno. 


TROPICAL  PARK 

THE  park  in  Leon  is  but  a  garden 
Where  grass  and  roses  grow  together; 
It  has  no  ordinance,  and  no  warden, 
Except  the  weather. 

The  paths  are  made  of  sand  so  fine 
That  they  are  always  smooth  and  neat; 
Sunlight  and  moonlight  make  them  shine, 
And  so  one's  feet 

Seem  ever  to  tread  on  magic  ground 
That  glistens  and  whispers  curiously, 
For  sand,  when  you  tread  it,  has  the  sound 
Of  the  sea. 

Sometimes  the  band,  of  a  warm  night, 
Makes  music  in  the  little  park, 
And  lovers  seek,  beyond  the  bright 
Foot-paths,  the  dark. 

You  can  almost  tell  what  they  do  and  say 
From  the  soft  gossip  of  the  sand, — 
What  warm  lips  whisper,  how  glances  play, 
And  hand  seeks  hand. 


14 


TROPICAL  MORNING 

IN  the  mornings, — ah,  the  tropical  mornings 
When  the  bells  were  all  so  dizzily  calling  one  to 

prayer!— 
All  my  thought  was  to  watch,  from  a  nook  in  my 

window, 
Indian  girls  from  the  river  with  flowers  in  their 

hair. 

One  bore 

Fresh  eggs  in  wicker  boxes, 

For  the  grocery  store*; 

Others,  baskets  of  fruit ;  and  some 

The  skins  of  mountain  cats  and  foxes 

Caught  in  traps  at  home. 

I  would  say, 

God  bless  the  womb  that  bore 

The  likes  of  you! 

And  another  day, 

Angels  could  not  be  more 

Lovely  than  you! 

Or,  wild  with  youth  and  heathen-gay, 

Faithful  men  adore 

Virgins  less  beautiful  than  you! 

They  would  reply, 
Leave  my  mother  alone! 
And,  with  a  mocking  eye, 

15 


You  are  no  saint  of  stone! 
Or,  sour  and  dry, 
Blasphemer  against  Heaven, 
In  Hell  you  will  atone! 

They  all  passed  so  stately  by,  they  all  walked  so 

gracefully, 

Balancing  their  bodies  on  lithe,  unstable  hips, 
Surely,  a  music  moved  them  that  swelled  in  their 

bosoms 
And  was  pizzicati  at  their  finger  tips! 

But  it  was  never  the  music  of  cathedral  bells, 
Though  there  were  tapers  burning  there, 
And  smoke  that  rose  in  fragrant  clouds, 
And  a  wonderful  wistfulness  of  prayer. 


16 


GUITAR  SONG  WITH  VARIATIONS 

Beneath  the  stars,  beneath  the  moon, 
Over  the  sands,  beside  the  sea, 
One  time,  in  Nicaragua, 
I  was  a  poet. 

I  and  my  guitar  were  always 

Talking  to  each  other, 
Like  lover  and  beloved, 

Like  child  and  mother. 

Intimate  things  of  wonder 

That  did  not  matter  much 
Except  that  she  trembled  so 

At  my  touch. 

Like  waves  that  come  and  go, 

Like  winds  that  kiss  and  fly, 
With  a  fleeting,  pleading  something 

That  seems  to  smile,  that  seems  to  sigh. 

Who  ever  caught  the  moonlight 

With  mortal  fingers,  or  laid  hands 

Upon  the  wind  the  while  it  swept 
Over  the  sands? 

My  song  was  made  of  moonlight, — 
You  cannot  catch  it,  though  you  try! 

My  song  had  the  wings  of  the  wind  upon  it, 
And  it  shall  pass  you  by. 

17 


Beneath  the  stars,  beneath  the  moon, 
Over  the  sands,  beside  the  sea, 
One  time,  in  Nicaragua, 
I  was  a  poet. 

Youth  is  a  song,  and  love  a  song, 

Beside  wide  waters  ringing 
When  God  makes  music  high  in  heaven 

And  all  the  stars  are  singing. 

God  and  the  stars  are  always 

Whispering  to  each  other, 
Like  lover  and  beloved, 

Like  child  and  mother. 

Youth  matters  little,  love  matters  little, 

So  quick  to  vanish  away! 
Only  they  know  God  is  so  near 

They  never  have  the  need  to  pray. 

Like  waves  that  come  and  go, 
Like  wings  that  beat  and  fly, 

With  a  fleeting,  pleading  something 
That  seems  to  smile,  that  seems  to  sigh, 

Who  ever  caught  love's  tresses 
With  mortal  fingers,  or  laid  hands 

On  youth's  sweet  body  while  it  dreamed 
On  shifting  sands? 

18 


My  song  was  all  a  song  of  youth, — 
You  cannot  catch  it,  though  you  try! 

My  song  had  the  wings  of  love  upon  it, 
And  it  shall  pass  you  by. 

Beneath  the  stars,  beneath  the  moon, 
Over  the  sands,  beside  the  sea, 
One  time,  in  Nicaragua, 
I  was  a  poet. 

Life  is  a  music,  and  death  a  music, 

A  waking  song  and  a  lullaby, 
Measure  on  measure  weaving,  unfolding, 
Forever  vanishing  in  the  sky. 

Life  and  death  are  always 

Answering  each  other, 
Like  lover  and  beloved, 

Like  child  and  mother. 

Intimate  things  of  wonder 
That  would  not  matter  much 

Except  that  they  tremble  so 
At  each  other's  touch. 

Like  waves  that  come  and  go, 
Like  birds  that  mate  and  fly, 

With  a  fleeting,  pleading  something 
That  seems  to  smile,  that  seems  to  sigh. 

19 


Who  ever  caught  life's  breathing 
With  mortal  fingers,  or  laid  hands 

On  death's  cool  shoulders  casting  shadows 
On  the  sands? 

My  song  was  a  splendid  song  of  living, — 
You  cannot  catch  it,  though  you  try! 

My  song  had  the  wings  of  death  upon  it, 
And  it  shall  pass  you  by. 

Beneath  the  stars,  beneath  the  moon, 
Over  the  sands,  beside  the  sea, 
One  time,  in  Nicaragua, 
I  was  a  poet. 

For  Miss  Florence  Shepard  Rogers. 


TROPICAL  DANCE 

(CENTRAL  AMERICAN  FOLK-SONG) 

—How  were  you  born,  Pelota? 

—I  was  born  nude,  Pelota. 
—Not  so  the  corn,  Pelota ! 

—The  corn  is  not  lewd,  Pelota, 
Not  lewd  as  I,  my  God! 

—Where  do  you  run,  Pelota? 
-Far  to  the  South,  Pelota. 
—Not  so  the  sun,  Pelota! 
— There  is  a  mouth,  Pelota, 

No  sun  knows  but  I,  my  God! 


THE  MIDGET  MAIDEN 

(SPANISH  FOLK-SONG) 

GIRLS  of  seventeen 

Little  babies  bear, 
I  am  almost  twenty, 

For  this  I  despair. 

Oh,  I  am  so  little, 

They  say,  She's  so  young! 
I  can't  bear  it,  mother, 

So  I  sing  this  song: 

My  breasts  are  ripe 

And  I  am  of  age, 
God  grant  me  for  lover 

The  king's  Uttle  page. 


THE  GIRL  THAT  WAS  WISE 

(CENTRAL  AMERICAN  FOLK-SONG) 

What  would  you  do  if  I  were  poor, 
Tell  me,  what  would  you  do? 

I'd  keep  a  tiny  grocery  store 
Where  all  the  folk  would  buy 

Because  my  balance  weights  were  true, 
My  sugar-measure  high. 

But  that  would  take  a  lot  of  money, 

And  what  if  we  had  none? 
In  all  the  woods  I'd  gather  honey 

And  sell  it  in  the  town 
With  little  twigs  of  cinnamon 

So  sweet  and  thick  and  brown! 

Then  come,  and  I  will  marry  you 

For  money  none  have  7. 
I  merely  said  what  I  would  do, 

But  I  don't  think  I'll  try, 

I  do  not  think  I'll  try. 


TROPICAL  RAIN 

THE  rain,  in  Nicaragua,  it  is  a  witch  they  say; 
She  puts  the  world  into  her  bag  and  blows  the 

skies  away; 

And  so,  in  every  home,  the  little  children  gather, 
Run  up  like  little  animals  and  kneel  beside  the 

mother, 
So  frightened   by  the  thunder  that  they  can 

hardly  pray. 

Sweet  Jesu,  you  that  stilled  the  storm  in  Galilee, 

Pity  the  homeless  now,  and  the  travellers  by  sea; 

Pity  the  little  birds  that  have  no  nest,  that  are 
forlorn; 

Pity  the  butterfly;  pity  the  honey-bee; 

Pity  the  roses  that  are  so  helpless,  and  the  un 
sheltered  corn, 

And  pity  me.  .  .  . 

Then,  when  the  rain  is  over  and  the  children's 

prayer  is  said, 
Oh  joy  of  swaying  palm  trees  with  the  rainbows 

overhead, 
And  the  streets  swollen  like  rivers,  and  the  wet 

earth's  smell, 
And  all  the  ants  with  sudden  wings  filling  the 

heart  with  wonder, 
And,  afar,  the  tempest  vanishing  with  a  stifled 

thunder 
In  a  glare  of  lurid  radiance  from  the  gaping 

mouth  of  Hell! 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE  OF  LEON 

(BURNED  BY  AMERICAN  FILIBUSTERS  1860) 

SHATTERED  walls 

The  rain  has  eaten, 
The  earthquakes  shaken, 

The  swift  storms  beaten, — 

No  one  owns  them, 

No  one  would  care 
To  mend  them  and  roof  them 

And  live  there. 

They  say  that  house 

Was  burned  down 
By  the  Yankee  filibusters 

When  they  sacked  the  town: 

Sons  of  the  Devil 

Who  drank  to  the  Devil 
All  one  night,  and  burned  the  house 

After  the  revel. 

People  passing  by  it 

In  the  night,  have  seen 
Phantom  lights  moving  there 

Ghostly  green. 

Faithful  wives, 

Going  to  prayer 
In  the  early  morning, 

Have  seen  shadows  there. 

25 


And  la  Juanita, 

Whom  the  Devil  took 
For  his  bride  one  night 

And  then  forsook — 

Where  else  was  her  body, 
Her  bruised  body,  found, 

But  in  that  bit  of  Devil's  church, 
Lying  on  the  ground? 

Shattered  walls 

The  rain  has  eaten, 
The  earthquakes  shaken, 

The  swift  storms  beaten, — 

No  one  owns  them, 

No  one  would  care 
To  mend  them  and  roof  them 

And  live  there. — 

I  will  marry  a  Yankee  girl 
And  we  will  dare! 

For  Mrs.  John  Lewis  Childs. 


A  SONG  FOR  WALL  STREET 

IN  Nicaragua,  my  Nicaragua, 

What  can  you  buy  for  a  penny  there? — 
A  basketful  of  apricots, 

A  water  jug  of  earthenware, 
A  rosary  of  coral  beads 

And  a  priest's  prayer. 

And  for  two  pennies?    For  two  new  pennies ?- 

The  strangest  music  ever  heard 
All  from  the  brittle  little  throat 

Of  a  clay  bird, 
And,  for  good  measure,  we  will  give  you 

A  patriot's  word. 

And  for  a  nickel?    A  bright  white  nickel? — 

It's  lots  of  land  a  man  can  buy, 
A  golden  mine  that's  long  and  deep, 

A  forest  growing  high, 
And  a  little  house  with  a  red  roof 

And  a  river  passing  by. 

But  for  your  dollar,  your  dirty  dollar, 

Your  greenish  leprosy, 
It's  only  hatred  you  shall  get 

From  all  my  folks  and  me; 
So  keep  your  dollar  where  it  belongs 

And  let  us  be! 


TROPICAL  AFTERNOON 

I  USED  to  watch  the  women  going  down 
With  earthen  jugs  where  water  never  fails, 
Summing  the  daily  gossip  of  the  town 
And  making  new  remembrance  of  old  tales. 
So  suns  might  set  and  mornings  rise,  and  flowers 
Blossom  and  fall:  these  never  gave  them  care; 
To  them  the  ceaseless  toiling  of  the  hours 
Was  but  a  pretty  thing  to  make  them  fair. 

The  winds  are  just  that  way,  that  talk  so  free; 
The  pleasant  rivers,  running,  are  that  way, 
And  all  the  leaves  and  roots  of  a  young  tree 
That  feed  on  wind,  suck  the  wet  earth,  and  know 
Such  familiarity  with  every  day 
They  care  not  how  the  wind  and  waters  go. 


TROPICAL  LIFE 

THERE'S  a  grave  where  my  father  lies, 
But  I  mind  me  rather  of  a  place 
Was  as  familiar  to  his  eyes 
As  his  father's  face. 

The  street  that's  bounded  by  ancient  houses 
Runs  to  the  park,  and  there  the  sun 
Is  like  a  golden  flock  that  browses 
Until  day  is  done. 

The  light  is  heavy,  and  moves  so  slow, 
And  sometimes  huddles  in  a  heap 
And  seems  to  lift  large  heads  and  go 
To  thoughtful  sleep. 

I  wonder  if  ever  he  saw  the  light 

This  way.    He  must  have  thought  strange  things 

(And  never  told  them,  that  I  might), 

So  fast  there  clings 

To  my  remembrance  of  his  ways 
A  memory  of  herds  of  sun 
Pasturing  quietly  through  his  days 
Until  life  was  done. 


ALL  SOULS'  DAY 

THE  day  my  people  hold 
Dedicate  to  the  dead, 
There  are  no  flowers  rsd  or  gold 
In  any  flower  bed, 

Or  cypress  tree  but  showc 

Torn  branches  to  the  sun, — 

But  the  white  graves  are  green  and  rose 

And  happy  every  one. 

Along  the  long  straight  street 
The  living  measure  slow, 
On  half -reluctant,  conscious  feet, 
The  way  that  all  must  go. 

The  year  is  at  November, 

The  wind's  a  weary  call; 

They  wonder  why  they  should  remember 

This  sorry  festival; 

They  wonder  why  they  dressed 

To  shine  under  the  sun, 

The  flowers  they  cut  were  at  their  best 

And  happy  every  one.  .  .  . 

Thank  God  the  blindman  rings 
His  beautiful  sad  bell! 
For  there's  a  voice  in  it  that  sings 
What  I  could  never  tell. 

For  Mr.  William  Dean  Howells. 

30 


TROPICAL  CHILDHOOD 

TOYS  I  had,  soldiers  of  lead  and  a  sword  of  tin 
And  kites  and  tops ;  but  I  broke  the  silly  sword 
And  melt  the  soldiers,  and  fast  as  a  top  may  spin 
And  high  as  a  kite  may  fly,  I  sent  a  word 
Whirling  and  soaring:  asking.    I  was  so  thin 
And  restless ;  scarcely  spoke  and  hardly  heard 
What  people  gossiped,  too  busy  with  the  din 
Of  that  one  answer  that  daily  was  deferred. 

And  so  I  grew,  and  one  day  saw  the  tears 
That  made  my  mother's  cheek  salty  to  kiss, 
And  looked  behind  me  at  the  vanishing  years, 
And  looked  before  me  at  the  approaching  tide, 
And  knew  myself  a  turmoil  of  mysteries 
And  life  a  whirlwind  rushing  at  my  side. 


BIRDS  OF  CLAY 

BIRDS  of  clay  I  whistled  through, 
Have  you  flown  away? 
I  remember  the  smell  of  you, 
Birds  of  clay! 

Old  it  was,  so  old,  so  old, — 
Dust  of  centuries  of  dead! 
All  my  childhood  I  was  told 
You  would  fly,  and  are  you  fled? 

When  I  am  dead  I  want  to  lie 
Where  in  the  centuries  to  be 
Children  shall  utter  song  and  cry 
Through  the  winged  dust  of  me. 


BODY  AND  SOUL 


THIS  cobweb  of  long  streets  is  called  Leon. 
The  spider  Time  began  and  left  it  there 
To  dangle  in  the  still,  tropical  air 
Moved  in  no  wind  but  by  the  breathing  sun. 
The  coloured  roofs  are  sorry  captured  wings, 
The  churches  are  brown  beetle  carcasses; 
And  nothing  quickens,  all  is  loneliness, 
Save  when,  importunate,  an  old  bell  rings. 

Beside  Leon.  Subtiava  sprawls.    It  has 
No  other  colours  but  the  green  of  trees, 
The  gray  of  huts,  the  zinc  of  dusty  grass. 
The  Spanish  city  and  the  Indian  lie, 
Unmindful  of  the  tread  of  centuries, 
Unchangeable  beneath  the  changeless  sky. 

II 

Lust  and  despair,  hunger  and  grief,  here  tread 
On  padded  feet,  afraid  Life  may  arise; 
Youth's  passion  is  at  best  a  sick  surmise, 
Youth's  dreams  are  children  sickly  born,  or  dead. 
Disease  makes  visitings  familiarly: 
The  rich  have  prayers  said,  the  priestless  poor 
Drink  bitter  roots.    And  Death  is  but  a  boor 
That  will  not  let  this  doing-nothing  be. 


God  is  somewhere,  perhaps.    And  Satan  too. 
There  is  a  Heaven,  yes.    There  is  a  Hell. — 
Facility  of  faith  where  skies  are  blue 
And  the  volcanoes  groan  like  souls  in  pain! 
But  the  glad  will  to  live!    Alas,  it  fell, 
A  stricken  tree,  under  the  blight  of  Spain. 

in 

This  is  the  body,  this  the  soul  of  you, 
Ah,  Nicaragua,  mother  dolorous! 
Nor  is  it  lack  of  love  to  see  you  thus, — 
Were  I  less  sorrowful,  my  song  less  true, 
I  would  belie  the  blood  runs  in  my  veins. 
My  love  is  savage:  I  will  strip  you  bare, 
And  wound  you  with  the  sight  of  your  despair, 
And  whip  you  with  the  leash  of  your  own  pains. 

But  when  the  dawn  is  red  after  this  night, 
When  I  have  beaten  you  to  gestate  wrath, 
You  shall  behold  your  self  and  test  your  might, 
And  through  this  sad  and  barren  laziness 
Shall  stretch  my  passion,  your  triumphal  path, 
And  you  shall  weep  to  know  my  tenderness. 

For  Dr.  Manuel  Maldonado 


MY  NICARAGUA 

You  take  the  street  that  runs  by  the  cathedral 
And  go  some  fourteen  blocks  and  up  a  hill 
And  past  the  three-arch  bridge  until  you  come 
To  Guadalupe.     There  the  houses  are 
No  stately  Spanish  palaces,  flat  and  lazy, 
As  in  the  center  of  the  town  you  see, 
Heavy  with  some  three  centuries  upon  them, 
Accustomed  to  the  sunlight  and  the  earthquakes, 
Half  bored,  you  fancy,  by  these  ways  of  nature; 
But  little  things,  ugly  almost,  and  frail, 
With  low  red  roofs  and  flimsy  rough  cut  doors, 
A  trifle  better  than  an  Indian  hut; 
Not  picturesque,  just  dreary  commonplace, 
As  commonplace  and  dreary  as  the  flats 
Here  in  your  cities  where  your  poor  folks  live ; 
And  yet  they  seem  so  glad  the  sun  is  shining, 
So  glad  a  little  wind  begins  to  blow, 
Too  humbly,  purely  glad  to  say  it,— 
And  all  the  while  afraid  of  the  volcanoes, 
Holding  their  breath  lest  these  should  wake  and 
crush  them. 

Look  through  the  doors  ajar  and  see  the  walls 
With  holy  pictures,  saints  and  angels  there,— 
Like  little  windows  opening  to  Heaven,— 
Sold  to  my  people,  reverenced  by  them. 
And  see  the  children,  playing,  wrangling,  dream 
ing, 
Oh,  much  the  way  that  children  are  elsewhere. 

35 


And  see  the  faithful  wives,  sweeping  or  mending, 
Setting  their  tables,  doing  the  thousand  things 
Hardly  worth  noticing  that  women  do 
About  their  houses,  meaning  life  to  them. 
And  if  you  listen,  you  may  hear  them  sing: 
Not  anywhere  are  better  songs  than  theirs ! 
That  rise  and  melt  away  like  incense  smoke, 
And  can,  if  pressed  too  hard  against  the  heart, 
Drip  heavy  drops  that  are  all  women's  tears. 

But  if  you  hire  a  guide,  no  guide  will  ever 
Think  of  directing  you  to  see  this  mere 
Unhonoured  dailiness  of  people's  lives 
That  is  the  soil  the  roots  of  beauty  know. 
The  old  cathedral  that  the  Spaniards  built, 
With  hand-carved  altars  for  two  thousand  saints ; 
The  ruined  fortress  where  they  say  that  Nelson 
Lost  his  left  eye  when  he  was  but  a  pirate— 
Oh,  broken  piles  of  masonry  outworn, 
The  shreds  and  trash  of  things  that  were  of  price, 
Cocoons  forgotten  whence  the  butterflies 
Of  love  of  country  and  of  love  of  God 
Rose,  and  were  lost  among  the  fields  afar! 

The  dear  hotels  with  palm  trees  in  the  garden 
And  a  self -playing  piano  drumming  rags, 
Where  you  drink  lemonade  and  rack  your  brains 
Thinking:  What  in  the  devil's  name  is  Tropics? — 
The  shops  of  German,  English  and  French  own 
ers; 

36 


The  parlours  of  the  ruling  class  adorned 
With  much  the  same  bad  taste  as  in  New  York,— 
That  never  was  my  country!    But  the  rows 
Of  earthen  little  houses  where  men  dwell, 
And  women,  all  too  busy  living  life 
To  think  of  faking  it,  that  is  my  country, 
My  Nicaragua,  mother  of  great  poets! 

And  when  you  see  that,  what?    That  in  despite 
Newspapered  revolutions  and  so  forth, 
The  different  climate  and  the  different 
Traditions  and  grandfathers  of  the  race, 
My  people  and  your  people  are  the  same: 
Folks  with  their  worries  and  their  hopes  about 

them, 

Toiling  for  bread,  and  for  a  something  more 
That  ever  changes,  that  no  one  could  name — 
And  this  is  worth  the  journey  to  find  out. 


THE  DREAMER'S  HEART  KNOWS 
ITS  OWN  BITTERNESS 

(A  PAN -AMERICAN  POEM  ON  THE  ENTRANCE  or 
THE  UNITED  STATES  INTO  THE  WAR) 

FROM  the  South  am  I,  from  the  tropic  lands; 
I  was  born  where  the  sunlight  is  molten  gold: 
If  you  probe  my  heart,  if  you  pierce  my  hands, 
You  will  know  the  blood  that  is  never  cold. 


Where  the  mountains  raise  large  mouths  of  fire 
That  kiss  the  clouds  perpetually, 
It  was  there  I  learned  of  the  heart's  desire, 
And  the  soul  of  the  mountains  is  the  soul  of  me. 


To  the  North  I  came,  with  a  dream,  with  a  song, 
With  a  noise  like  the  music  of  the  rain  in  the 

Spring, 

For  I  held  the  Vision  and  it  ruled  my  tongue, 
And  North  and  South  would  hear  me  sing. 

To  the  South  I  said:  "You  are  my  Mother: 
With  your  will  you  have  shaped  me,  with  your 

rich  breasts  fed ; 
Your  daughters  I  call   Sister,  your  sons,  my 

Brother; 

In  my  hour  of  need  I  will  call  on  no  other, — 
You  will  close  my  eyes  when  I  am  dead." 

38 


To  the  North  I  said:  "You  are  my  Bride: 
I  have  found  you  fair,  you  shall  know  me  true ; 
We  will  rise  together,  side  by  side; 
On  a  day,  you  shall  cherish  my  love  with  pride, 
For  who  praise  my  name  shall  honour  you." 

And  again  I  spoke  in  my  Mother's  face : 
''This  is  your  daughter,  this  foreign  land; 
For  my  love  of  her  I  have  dared  disgrace: 
I  have  shattered  the  walls  of  creed  and  race, 
Love  was  so  true  that  no  walls  could  stand. 

"For  this  land  I  have  blushed  when  its  choice 

was  shame ; 

For  this  land  I  have  cheered  with  all  my  breath; 
Sweet  in  my  ears  is  its  very  name : 
For  its  sake  I  would  die  the  soldier's  death. 

"Not  false  to  you,  Mother;  not  false,  my  Mother! 
It  were  not  in  my  blood  to  be  false  to  you ! 
You  have  I  cherished  above  all  other, 
But  I  love  this  land,  and  my  flags  are  two." 

These  words  I  spoke  till  to  hear  them  there 
Arose  from  the  Past,  blood-thirsty  and  shrill, 
A  savage  cry,  a  savage  prayer 
To  forget  him  not.    But  I  sang  on  still 
With  the  dreamer's  passion,  with  the  poet's  will. 

39 


I  knew  the  Past:  what  the  years  had  done: 
What  the  heedless  North,  what  the  headlong 

South ; 

But  the  Past  was  night,  and  I  was  the  sun 
And  the  light  of  the  morning  was  on  my  mouth. 

For  a  pact  I  name,  for  a  living  scroll, 

For  a  singing  vow  that  the  North  should  take, 

For  a  pledge  immortal  as  my  soul 

That  not  even  the  hatred  of  hell  might  break. 

I  would  die  in  battle  for  the  least  of  these  lands; 
Their  sorrows  are  mine,  I  have  cried  for  their 

wrong; 

I  have  given  them  ever  the  work  of  my  hands, 
But  I  shaped  them  the  future  in  my  gift  of  song. 

Unbelief  was  against  me,  with  sneer,  with  scold, 

With  impotent  jeer  and  rancorous  whine; 

But  mine  was  youth  and  belief  was  mine: 

I  was  the  blood  that  is  never  cold, 

And  my  faith  had  the  strength  of  a  heady  wine. 

From  the  vineyard  of  flags  I  had  plucked  racemes 
Of  grapes  that  were  stars  and  suns  in  the  shields, 
I  had  crushed  these  clusters  and  I  knew  the 

dreams 
That  the  wine  of  flags  to  the  drinker  yields: 

40 


On  a  day  I  saw,  as  I  raised  my  eyes, 
The  Condor  and  Eagle  in  epic  flight; 
Their  wings  were  black,  and  over  the  skies 
They  cast  a  sudden  prefigured  night. 

The  sky  of  peace  they  rent  in  two : 
Taloned  with  hatred,  clawed  with  threat, 
They  sprang  at  each  other  athwart  the  blue : 
They  had  heard  the  Past's  "Lest  ye  forget!" 
But  I  flung  my  dreams  and,  as  they  flew, 
My  swift  song  caught  them  as  in  a  net. 

On  a  day  the  sea  wind  buffeted  me 
And  the  sea  spray  salted  my  hair  and  lips, 
And  I  saw,  as  I  turned  to  the  angry  sea, 
That   the  waters   were  black   with  war-rigged 
ships. 

Southward  they  bore,  for  the  foe  lay  there. 

I  looked  and  I  saw,  from  coast  to  coast, 

That  the  South  had  leaped  like  a  beast  from  its 

lair, 

It  had  heard  the  Past's  blood-thirsty  prayer, 
And  twenty  banners  smote  the  air, 
And  the  twenty  peoples  were  as  one  host. 

Never  was  craftier  siren  song 

Than  the  song  I  sang  till  the  waters  lay 

Untroubled  blue  as  when  the  young 

Feet  of  the  stars  first  danced  along 

Its  burnished  floor  in  the  world's  third  day. 

41 


But  now  a  cry  like  a  red  flamingo 

Has  winged  its  way  to  the  Judgment  gates : 

My  Nicaragua  and  Santo  Domingo 

Shorn  in  their  leanness  by  the  "famous  States"! 

Harried  and  thieved  in  their  want,  in  their  hun 
ger, 

Their  honour  flaunted  for  a  thing  of  laughter.  . . . 

— You  have  done  this  because  you  are  the 
stronger, 

Do  you  know  what  deeds  may  follow  after? 

In  the  night  I  have  risen  from  sleep  and  rest 
With  the  cry  of  the  plundered  lands  in  my  ears, 
Have  you  not  enough  in  this  land  of  the  best 
That  you  trespass  beyond  with  unholy  shears? 

Will  the  birds  be  loosened  that  I  caught  in  air? 
Must  the  blue  sea  blacken  with  warlike  ships? 
O  my  Bride,  O  my  Bride  whom  I  found  so  fair, 
Is  my  wooing  naught,  and  must  I  despair 
Who  have  come  with  this  hope  of  song  on  my 
lips?— 

Who  have  come  to  the  North  with  a  dream,  with 

a  song, 

In  the  furrows  of  morning  sowing  the  Spring?— 
Is   this   vain,    this    Vision   that   has   ruled   my 

tongue?— 
But  yet  once  more  must  you  hear  me  sing: 

4* 


War  at  your  gates  is  a  beggar  no  longer, 

You    have    crossed    the    sea    with    the    terrible 

Stranger, 
You  have  challenged  the  might  of  Belgium's 

wronger : 
Dreadful  you  stand  like  the  winged  Avenger. 

Will  you  let  this  thing  be  said  of  you, 

That  you  stood  for  Right  who  were  clothed  with 

Wrong? 

That  to  Latin  America  you  proved  untrue  ? 
That  you  clamoured  for  justice  with  a  guilty 

tongue? 

Hear  me,  who  cry  for  the  sore  oppressed: 
Make  right  this  grievance  that  I  bear  in  me 
Like  a  lance  point  driven  into  my  breast! 
So,  blameless  and  righteous,  your  strength  shall 

be 

The  power  of  God  made  manifest, 
And  I  pledge  the  South  shall  never  rest 
Till  your  task  is  accomplished  and  the  world  is 

free. 


IN  NEW  ENGLAND  AND 
OTHER   LYRICS 


DELIVERANCE 

WHAT  am  I  doing,  here,  in  New  England? 
All  day  long,  till  the  end  of  the  purple  afternoon, 
Watching  to  see,  over  the  hills  of  New  England, 
The  rising  of  the  universal  moon. 


PORTRAIT 

LIKE  frozen  water  there  I  found  him, 
With  thoughts  that  were  like  leafless  trees  around 
him. 

Like  water  frozen  to  its  depth  I  saw  him, 
No  summer  ever  was  long  enough  to  thaw  him. 

I  tried  to  make  him  angry,  only 

He  grew  more  cold  and  reticent  and  lonely. 

I  tried  all  ways  I  could  to  love  him : 

I  crept  up  closer  and  I  leaned  above  him. 

I  pierced  his  surface  in  good  part 
And  made  a  plumb-line  of  my  heart : 

But  he  was  frozen  through  and  through, 
How  deep  he  was  I  never  knew. 


THE  SECRET 

THIS,,  in  the  lower  Berkshires, 

Was  most  like  witchery, 
At  evening,  in  the  Springtime, 

The  bark  of  a  white  birch  tree 
Turned  flesh,  for  my  sake  only, 
So  soft  to  touch,  so  rose  to  see. 

When  the  cool  sun  was  setting 
The  sky  spread  out  her  hair 

Over  the  pillowy  mountains 
Heaped  for  her  comfort  there, 

And  I  saw,  like  bathing  women, 

White  birches  tossing  in  the  air. 

But  the  good  folk  grew  sulky 

Because  I  would  not  pay 
A  compliment  to  the  Springtime 

In  that  New  England  day; 
And  they  murmured  because  I  wanted 
To  pack  my  things  and  run  away. 


CONFIDENCES 

I  HAVE  told  you  my  secret, 
And  the  white  birch  tree 

Is  wistful;  the  little  valleys 
Are  dreaming  of  the  sea. 

The  hills  have  gathered  round  me 

To  hear  me  tell 
Of  the  deep  volcanoes 

Where  the  old  gods  dwell. 

0  little  child  New  England, 
And  did  you  like  to  burn 

Witches?    And  were  you  really 
Ever  so  stern? 

Dance,  all  you  little  children, 
And  I  will  play  with  you! 

1  am  afraid  of  witches 

Also;  I  burn  them  too.  .  .  . 


FINALLY 

FINALLY,  after  months  of  being  shy, 

An  Autumn  and  a  Winter  of  looking  at  each 

other 

With  a  suspecting  eye, 

It  is  good  to  know  at  last  that  I  have  found  you, 
New  England,  little  mother! 
Ah,  good  to  put  my  arms  around  you, 
To  clasp  you  fast  and  hold  you  fast, 
Suspicion  done  away,  and  shyness  past, 
Now,  in  the  Springtime, — thank  God,  the  Spring 

at  last! 

You  are  not  f eelingless,  you  are  not  cold : 
There  are  your   farmer  women   suddenly  lose 

their  mind, 
Afraid  of  the  long  silences,  afraid  of  growing 

old, 

Eager  for  a  larger  living,  eager  to  seek  and  find 
What  the  new  winds  tell,  what  the  old  winds  told, 
How  passionate,  my  God!  how  passionately 

blind. 

You  are  not  heartless,  you  are  not  unkind : 
There  was  the  sweet  old  couple  that  took  care  of 

me; 

Their  son,  grown  up  and  gone,  they,  left  behind, 
Loving  all  mothers'  sons  with  unquestioning 

charity. 

51 


It  was  most  of  the  nights  they  would  sit  up  and 

wait 

Till  I  was  safe  in  bed  and  warm  in  bed; 
And  their  call,  in  the  chilly  mornings,  lest  I  be 

late; 
And  their  coffee  hot  for  me,  and  their  raisin 

bread ! 
And  never  a  penny  asked  for  the  kindness,  never 

a  penny  paid, 
And  always  the  loving  word,  God  mil  be  good  to 

you! — 

With  all  my  heart  this  in  my  soul  I  said: 
It  is  now  His  goodness  shows,  and  this  was  true. 

I  have  travelled  in  many  lands,  I  have  lived  in 
many  places, 

New  England  hearts  are  the  kindest  hearts  I  ever 
knew: 

For  courtesy  the  ways  of  them,  for  honesty  their 
open  faces: — 

Poets  who  tell  the  truth  of  people  are  so  few, 

I  will  go  through  all  the  world  again,  New  Eng 
land,  and  sing  your  praises. 

I  will  go  to  all  the  places  where  ever  I  have  gone, 
And  last  to  Nicaragua,  where  I  will  tell  my 

people : 
"They  haven't  any  cathedrals,  their  worshipping 

is  done 

52 


In  little  bits  of  churches,  painted  white,  with  a 

pointed  steeple, 
But  their  God  is  the  God  of  us,  their  Christ  is 

Mary's  son. 

"They  haven't  the  lakes  we  have,  or  the  wild  cow 

herds ; 
And  it's  very  cold  in  Winter,  and  very  hot  in 

Summer ; 
And  at  talking  they  are  sort  of  slow,  being  poor 

of  words, 
But  there  was  never  a  New  England  door  that 

turned  away  a  roamer, 
And  in  the  Spring  the  little  woods  are  thick  with 

birds ! 

"Once,  when  my  heart  went  out  of  me,  a  careless 
rover, 

A  white  birch  tree  was  growing  on  a  New  Eng 
land  hill 

Turned  flesh,  for  my  sake  only,  and  let  me  be 
her  lover 

Till  I  was  sane  and  quiet  again,  having  had  my 
fill, 

Hushed  with  the  breathless  wonder  that  my  love 
could  move  her. 

"It  was  a  little,  gray  New  England  woman  I 

told  the  story  to; 
She  did  not  run  with  fear  of  hell  to  tell  the  parish 

priest — 


The  way  our  old  Church-haunting  women  do — 
But  looked  at  me  with  eyes  were  tenderer  than 

moonlight  in  the  mist, 
And,  God  mil  be  good  to  you,  she  said ;  God  will 

be  good  to  you. 
And  it  was  then  and  there  that  He  was  good  to 

me,  and  this  is  true." 

For  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Edgar  B.  Roberts,  of  Wil- 
liamstown,  Mass. 


MEASURE 

IN  a  little  pool 
You  could  jump  over, 
I  saw  reflected 
All  of  the  sky. 

I  wondered:  How 

Should  one  rightly  measure 

This  lovely  water,— 

By  the  earth  that  holds  it? 

By  the  heaven  it  holds? 

You  know  how  I  measured  it! 
For  Mrs.  Daniel  E.  Wheeler 


55 


INMATE 

THE  woman  whose  heart  is  scarcely  stirred 
Except  to  feel  the  evening  air, 

May  be,  perhaps,  like  a  brown  bird 
For  all  her  witchery  of  hair. 

May  be,  perhaps,  if  she  could  tell, 
A  withered  leaf  in  Autumn  weather, 

Or  broken  glass,  or  a  dry  well, 

Or  like  a  bright  wing's  cast  off  feather. 

I  say  to  myself,  over  and  over, 

The  pity  of  things  that  play  a  while; 

And  was  the  wind  her  only  lover, 
That  she  can  only  look  and  smile? 

I  say  to  myself,  No  one  shall  know 

The  secret  of  the  song  she  sings* 
Except  the  loneliness  of  the  snow, 
And  sea-weeds  when  the  tide  is  low, 
And  the  great  anguish  of  passing  wings. 


SONG  OF  THE  MAGDALEN 

PETER  holds  the  keys, 

And  one  is  fire,  and  one  is  gold; 
But  I  have  far  more  than  these: 

His  heart  I  hold. 

On  the  Cross  He  lies, 

Tortured  limb  on  wooden  limb, 
But  to  me  He  turns  His  eyes 

And  mine  to  Him. 


57 


CELLINI  AT  THE  METROPOLITAN 
MUSEUM 

SALT  cellar  for  the  Rospigliosi :  Here 
The  turtle  is  a  symbol  of  all  time 
Except  his  own  who  wrought  the  symbol.    Then 
The  dragon  claws,  the  dragon  wings  and,  more, 
The  rhythmic  thrust  of  the  lithe  dragon  body, 
Sought  to  outdo,  all  in  a  sudden  sunrise, 
The  perfect  poise  and  tread  of  centuries 
That  thorough  night  had  laboured  on  to  morn 
ing; 

And  only  pointed  ways,  arrived  no  where 
And  held  an  empty  cup  of  goldenness 
To  the  eternal  questionings.    The  Sphinx 
Twines  calmly  siren  limbs — ever  the  call ! 
Hangs  from  her  breast  the  pearl  of  all  desire, 
A  conquered  mist,  attainable  in  form, 
Inviolate  forever  in  the  dream 
Heaven  itself  hides  from  the  dragon's  seeing. 

Knowing  that  symbols  too  have  parentage — 
A  thread  of  being  folding  them  forever 
So  that  the  perfect  symbol  sums  all  things, — 
I  know  the  Sphinx,  the  dragon  and  the  shell 
Are  but  the  soaring  issue  born  of  Time 
That,  imperturbedly,  fulfilled  within 
The  measure  of  its  roundness,  neither  seeks 
Or  ever  finds. 


58 


Thus,  from  all  restlessness 
Of  outward  action,  rest  and  peace  are  here 
Told,  in  a  gold  salt  cellar  for  a  prince, 
By  one  who  in  a  whim  grew  generous 
And  summed  his  life  and  gave  it  all  in  symbols. 


THREE  SONGS  MY  LITTLE  SISTER 
MADE 

I.    MAKE-BELIEVE 

Mariposa,  mariposita, 
la  del  ala  azul, 
vamos  a  volvernos  locas 
de  tanta  luz! 

BUTTERFLY,  butterfly, 
You  whose  wings  are  blue! 
Let  us  riot  in  the  sunlight 
Mad  with  dew. 

Butterfly,  butterfly, 
You  whose  wings  are  bright! 
Let  us  riot  in  the  darkness 
Mad  with  light. 

Go  and  say  good-by 
To  the  pretty  rose, 
Go  and  say  good-by 
And  give  her  a  kiss. 

I  will  call  the  carpenter: 
—"Carpenter,  at  once 
Make  a  little  coffin 
Wide  enough  for  three.  .  .  ." 


60 


I  will  call  the  priest: 

— "Father,  say  a  mass 

For  the  butterfly, 

For  the  rose  and  me.  .  .  ." 

Mother,  I  am  crazy! 
Playing  I  was  dead 
With  the  butterfly 
In  the  flower  bed. 

All  the  flowers  laughed, 
Excepting  the  rose, 
All  the  flowers  laughed, 
But  I  was  the  rose! 

II.    PENNIES 

Los  centavos  son  de  los  pobres, 
de  los  ciegos  y  los  tullidos, 
de  los  que  sufren  grandes  hambres 
y  van  rezando  en  los  caminos. 

PENNIES  are  for  beggars 
For  the  halt  and  blind, 
For  the  hungry  people 
To  pray  for  and  find. 

For  myself  I  only 
Want  a  bit  of  glass 
Coloured  with  the  colours 
Of  the  days  that  pass. 

61 


For  myself  I  only 
Want  a  garden  seat; 
Pennies  are  for  beggars 
Begging  in  the  street. 

For  myself  I  only 
Want  a  butterfly, 
If  alive,  to  chase  it, 
And  if  dead,  to  cry. 

For  myself  I  only 
Want  perishing  things; 
Pennies  are  for  beggars 
And  I  come  from  kings. 

This  about  my  Mother 
Is  surpassing  strange, 
That  she  counts  the  pennies 
From  the  baker's  change. 

III.     MOONRISE 

Voy  a  Tiacer  rey  a  mi  novio 
con  una  corona  de  oro. 

I  WILL  make  my  lover  King,  I  will  give  him  a 

golden  crown; 
I  will  send  the  heralds  on  horses  to  proclaim  him 

through  the  town; 

62 


I  myself  will  come  before  him  and  before  him 

will  kneel  down 
With,  "My  liege,  I  am  thy  servant,  though  I 

gave  thee  the  golden  crown." 

He  will  rise,  and  the  folds  of  his  mantle  will  show 

how  he  is  proud ; 
He  will  rise  as  when  the  silver  moon  rises  over  a 

space  of  cloud; 
He  will  see  me,  like  a  water,  heaving  before  him, 

crying  aloud, 
And  perhaps  I  shall  be  Queen,  or  the  moonlight 

will  be  my  shroud. 


SONNET 

ARE  you  awake,  Beloved?    Come  and  see 
My  special  garden,  set  and  sown  apart 
In  the  most  secret  corner  of  my  heart. 
Never  the  butterfly,  never  the  bee 
Has  sucked  a  blossom  there;  no  day  too  sunny 
Has  dried  a  leaf;  no  wind  has  swept  and  bent 
A  single  careless  branch:  with  fruit  unspent 
The  trees  are  heavy,  and  the  flowers  with  honey. 

But  I  am  hurt  with  this  too  rich  excess : 
Come  thirsty,  hot  and  swift!    Come  butterfly, 
Come  sun,  come  wind !  and  twist  my  trees  awry, 
Scatter  my  fruit,  and  of  this  perfectness 
Leave  only  ruins  where  the  Spring  next  year 
May  say,  This  place  is  mine,  love  triumphed  here. 


COURTSHIP 

AM  I  too  changeful,  Death? 

You  are  too  changeful  too ; 
Then  leave  me  here  to  draw  my  breath 

And  come  no  more  to  woo. 

We'd  make  too  false  a  wife, 

A  husband  too  untrue : 
Sometimes  I  am  in  love  with  Life 

And  Life  is  sometimes  you. 


THREE  SONGS 

I.     TRYST 

THERE  were  black  roses  there 

And  a  lake  of  snow, 
And  silver  wings  were  in  the  air — 

That  is  all  I  know: 
There  were  black  roses  there 

And  a  lake  of  snow. 

Do  you  remember — no? — 

How  it  was  tragic  there? 
Black  roses  all  a-row 

Growing  for  your  hair ; 
And  the  little  lake  of  snow, 

How  it  was  tragic  there! 

II.    WORN  TOY 

As  a  child  gives  what  it  no  more  desires, 
With  a  quick  gesture  and  avertedly, 
Grown  weary  of  her  heart,  as  a  child  tires 
Of  a  worn  toy,  she  gave  her  heart  to  me. 

III.    THE  BIRCH  TREE 

I  LOVED  a  bit  of  New  England  once 

(God  knows  why!), 
A  white  birch  delicate  against  the  snow 

Or  the  gray  sky; 

66 


But  it  was  the  wind  that  wrung  its  branches, 
That  clasped  and  held  and  flung  its  branches,- 
The  wind,  not  I. 

For  Miss  Gertrude  Watson. 


67 


IN  WAR  TIME 


A  PRAYER  FOR  THE  UNITED 
STATES      August,  1917. 

APOCALYPTIC  blasts  are  ravaging  over-sea. 
With  lure  of  flag  and  conquest  the  harlot  War  is 

wooing. 
The  horse  John  saw  in  Patmos  its  dread  course 

is  pursuing.— 
I  pray  the  Lord  He  shelter  the  stars  that  shelter 

me. 


71 


HATRED 

WHEN  hunger  crawls 

Up  to  the  heart,  and  draws 

Its  dragon  form  about  it,  and  its  claws 

Make  all  the  limbs  to  ache;  when  darkness  falls 

Upon  the  bloodshot  eyes 

While  yet  the  imperturbed  skies 

Are  full  of  light; 

When  lips  God  made  for  laughter  cry  outright, 

Whether  it  be  the  fault  of  man  or  fate, 

The  heart  God  made  for  loving  learns  to  hate 

And  swells  with  hatred,  hatred  from  the  core. 

All  else  is  antique  rhetoric  and  serves 

For  literature  to  cheat  the  hard-strung  nerves 

Of  people  weary  with  the  weight  of  war. 


DECEMBER,  1916 

EARLY  December  this  year  of  grace 

(This  year  of  sorrow,  the  world's  heart  saith), 

Here,  in  New  England,  earth's  wrinkled  face 

Is  frozen  stiff,  as  if  some  death 

Painful  and  sudden  had  struck  it  so. 

There  are  no  signs  as  yet  of  snow 

(No  signs  of  peace,  the  world's  heart  saith). 

I  almost  could  think  some  battle  here 
Was  fought,  and  mangled  bodies  lie, 
Frozen  and  filthy,  under  the  drear 
Gaze  of  the  sun,  the  moon,  the  sky, 
Who  still,  for  this,  forbid  the  snow. 

But  God  is  punctual  and  snow  will  come 

(And  peace  will  come,  the  world's  heart  saith) , 

And  earth  will  hide  her  troublesome 

Face  of  despair,  semblance  of  death. 

But  this  frozen  horror  that  we  know 

Shall  be  terrible  still,  under  the  snow 

(Peace  shall  be  terrible,  the  world's  heart  saith) 


DRILL 

WILLIAMS  COLLEGE,  April,  1917 

One!  two,  three,  four, 
One!  two,  three,  four, 
One,  two.  .  .  . 

It  is  hard  to  keep  in  time 

Marching  through 

The  rutted  slime 

With  no  drum  to  play  for  you. 

One!  two,  three,  four!  .  .  . 

And  the  shuffle  of  six  hundred  feet 
Till  the  marching  line  is  neat. 

Then  the  wet  New  England  valley 
With  the  purple  hills  around 
Takes  us  gently,  musically, 
With  a  kindly  heart  and  willing, 
Thrilling,  filling  with  the  sound 
Of  our  drilling. 

Battle  fields  are  far  away. 
All  the  world  about  me  seems 
The  fulfillment  of  my  dreams. 
God,  how  good  it  is  to  be 
Young  and  glad  to-day! 

74 


One!  two,  three,  jour, 
One!  two,  three.  .  .  . 

Now,  as  never  before, 

From  the  vastness  of  the  sky, 

Falls  on  me  the  sense  of  war. 

Now,  as  never  before, 

Comes  the  feeling  that  to  die 

Is  no  duty  vain  and  sore. 

Something  calls  and  speaks  to  me, — 

Cloud  and  hill  and  stream  and  tree; 

Something  calls  and  speaks  to  me 

From  the  earth,  familiarly. 

I  will  rise  and  I  will  go 

As  the  rivers  flow  to  sea, 

As  the  sap  mounts  up  the  tree 

That  the  flowers  may  blow. — 

God,  my  God, 

All  my  soul  is  out  of  me! 

God,  my  God, 

Your  world  is  much  too  beautiful!    I  feel 

My  senses  melt  and  reel ; 

And  my  heart  aches  as  if  a  sudden  steel 

Had  pierced  me  through  and  through. 

I  cannot  bear 

This  too  vigorous  sweetness  in  your  air; 

The  sunlight  smites  me  heavy  blow  on  blow, 

My  soul  is  black  and  blue 

75 


And  blind  and  dizzy.    God,  my  mortal  eyes 
Cannot  resist  the  onslaught  of  your  skies ! 
I  am  no  wind,  I  cannot  rise  and  go 
Tearing  in  madness  to  the  woods  and  sea ; 
I  am  no  tree, 

I  cannot  push  the  earth  and  lift  and  grow; 
I  am  no  rock 

To  stand  unmovable  against  this  shock. 
Behold  me  now,  a  too  desirous  thing, 
Passionate  lover  of  your  ardent  Spring, 
Held  in  her  arms  too  fast,  too  fiercely  pressed 
Against  her  thundering  breast 
That  leaps  and  crushes  me! 

One!  two,  three,  four, 
One!  two,  three,  four, 
One,  two,  three.  .  .  . 

So  it  shall  be 

In  Flanders  or  in  France.    After  a  long 
Winter  of  heavy  burthens  and  loud  war 
I  will  forget,  as  I  do  now,  all  things 
Except  the  perfect  beauty  of  the  earth. 
Strangely  familiar,  I  will  hear  a  song, 
As  I  do  now,  above  the  battle  roar, 
That  will  set  free  my  pent  imaginings 
And  quiet  all  surprise; 
My  body  will  seem  lighter  than  the  air, 
Easier  to  sway  than  a  green  stalk  of  corn; 
Heaven  shall  bend  above  me  in  its  mirth 

76 


With  flutter  of  blue  wings ; 

And  singing,  singing,  as  to-day  it  sings, 

The  earth  will  call  to  me,  will  call  and  rise 

And  take  me  in  its  bosom  there  to  bear 

My  mortal-feeble  being  to  new  birth 

Upon  a  world,  this  world,  as  I  reborn, 

Where  I  shall  be 

Alive  again  and  young  again  and  glad  and  free. 

One!  two!  three!  four! 
One!  two!  three!  four! 
One!  two!  three!  .  .  . 

All  the  world  about  me  seems 
The  fulfillment  of  my  dreams. 


77 


ODE  TO  THE  WOOLWORTH 
BUILDING 

O  LYRIC-ARDENT,  lily-white,  arrayed 

Like  some  knight-worshipped  mediaeval  maid 

The  evening  of  her  nuptials,  in  a  gown 
Whose  long  chaste  folds  fall  rigorously  down 

And  hide  your  earth-shooned  feet ;  a  thinnest  veil 
Of  woven  mist  about  you,  and  a  frail 

Tiara  of  gold  blossoms  in  your  hair, — 
Why  do  you  tarry  all  the  seasons  there? 

Are  you  not  weary  waiting  night  and  day 
For  the  Beloved  long  upon  his  way? 

And  does  doubt  never  fret  with  swift  unrest 
The  aching  hunger  of  your  virgin  breast? 

And  do  you  never  feel  the  miseries 

That  crawl  about  your  feet  in  days  like  these? 

Sorrow  that  like  a  barren  bee  makes  hum 
But  drops  no  honey  in  the  empty  comb; 

And  busyness  that  seeks  in  a  steep  way 
A  slippery  release  of  day  from  day; 

78 


And  tears  withheld  so  long  the  eyes  forget 
Weeping  makes  mortal  sweetness  doubly  sweet; 

And  pain  untold  of  youth  that,  withering, 
Can  hardly  say  it  has  a  song  to  sing, 

But  only  snatches  caught  at  unaware 
And  lost  too  quickly  in  the  noonday  air; 

And  grief  for  ripened  youth  sailing  afar 
To  what  heroic  gesturing  of  war.  .  .  . 

Oh,  will  you  never  stoop  and  throw  you  down 
And  groan  for  pity  of  the  sorry  town? 


Ah,  beautiful  and  pitiful!  ah,  last 

And  fairest  of  the  daughters  of  the  Past 

Born  out  of  time  and  in  most  grievous  days 
When  unto  beauty  men  mete  out  no  praise  ! 

Lone  Gothic  princess,  all  your  line  is  dead: 
The  glory  of  your  race  is  vanished:  fled 

Is  that  high  faith  that  should  have  found  in  you 
Its  meet  delight  and  its  expression  true: 

For  you  should  be,  O  Virgin-like!  a  shrine 
Of  her  that  made  virginity  divine: 

79 


Mary's  handmaiden,  garlanded  with  bells, 
The  haunt  of  holy  nuns  and  miracles. 

But  men  no  longer  pray,  and  if  they  do 
Their  thought  and  action  prove  the  prayer  un 
true. 

Your  elder  sister,  gray  and  glorious  grown, 
She  born  to  Rheims,  the  Hun  has  overthrown; 

The  Iron  Heel  with  which  all  Hell  is  shod 
Trod  on  her  womb  that  bore  the  seed  of  God; 

Her  hands  were  tortured  and  plucked-out  her 

eyes; 
Her  rose-heart,  broken,  on  the  atrium  lies. 

And  you  that  never  in  your  care  have  held 
The  Bread  and  Wine;  where  never  yet  have 
swelled 

Anthem  and  incense,  should  they  tear  your  walls 
You  would  fall  blindly,  as  a  swart  heathen  falls. 

Yet  for  your  sake  I  speed  my  winged  song 
Beyond  the  thunderous  clamour  of  the  throng 

To  where  the  bards  of  ages  gone  still  raise 
For  lovely  things  like  you  their  luted  praise. 

80 


I,  pittancer  of  Poetry,  your  dole 

Of  song  deal  out  to  you ;  for  you  my  soul 

Have  gladdened  many  a  bitter  nightmare  night 
When  homeless,  hungry,  with  no  dawn  in  sight, 

I  walked  the  cruel  streets,  longing  to  be, 
In  that  sheer  midnight  of  my  misery, 

A  corpse  upon  the  waters  mourning  clad 
That  round  the  City  flow  forever  sad. 

Then,  luminous,  divine,  you  seemed  to  me 
Like  Jesus  when  He  preached  in  Galilee 

And  blessed  the  lowly  and  their  glory  told 
And  He  was  clothed  in  kindness  as  in  gold. 

In  seasons  of  unreasoning  despair, 
When  hate  crawled  to  my  heart  and  feasted 
there, 

And  love  knew  not  my  lips,  but,  grief  oppressed, 
Lay,  a  dead  burthen,  heavy  on  my  breast,— 

Oh,  charm  of  lovely  things !  you  stilled  my  grief, 
And,  reaching  to  your  beauty,  leaf  by  leaf, 

My  soul  would  bloom,  a  lily  tall  and  white 
Thirstily  drinking  from  your  dewy  light. 

81 


So  I  forgot  my  hunger,  reconciled 
To  God  and  man;  become  a  little  child 

For  very  love  of  you,  and  all  night  long 
My  heart  was  like  a  honeycomb  of  song. 

Therefore,  O  lyric-lofty,  lily-white! 

The  Lord's  own  taper  burning  in  the  night 

For  souls  that  walk  in  darkness,  ave!  hail! 
The  Lord  is  with  you.    He  has  wound  that  veil 

Of  silken  mist  about  you.    He  has  given 
Your  beauty  for  a  promise  of  His  Heaven, 

And  granted  you,  for  court  of  councillors, 
The  wise,  unerring  order  of  the  stars. — 

Say,  when  the  wars  are  ended,  will  this  pain 
Of  hunger  cease,  or  is  it  all  in  vain? 

For  Mrs.  Chester  Griswold,  Jr. 


THE  KNIGHT  IN  GRAY 

(!N  THE  FASHION  or  A  MOLDAVIAN  DOINA) 

COLOUR  of  the  poplar  leaf! 

Death  shall  keep  secret  this  one  thing: 
The  restlessness  that  was  my  grief 

Since  first  we  budded  in  the  Spring. 

Aye,  lie  was  sweet!  the  girls  will  say, 
And  all  the  world  shall  hear  of  me; 

The  poplar  leaf  is  not  so  gray, 
Or  mountain  mist  so  free. 

But  nothing  matters  except  this  thing: 
My  arms  are  rhythmic  to  my  breath, 

And  I  must  live  the  songs  I  sing 
To  save  my  songs  from  death. 

Nay,  but  I  always  fought  and  died! 

And  ever  I  entered  the  lists  of  war 
With  a  king's  sadness  and  the  pride 

Of  an  emperor. 

And  if  some  hate,  no  hate  have  I 
Who  fight  for  love  and  love  alone 

Returning  to  the  earth  and  sky 
Their  elements  I  own. 

The  songs  I  sang  came  to  my  lips 
The  way  of  seeds  to  fields  afar, 

83 


Shaken  from  trees  whose  budding  tips 
Were  lances  sharpening  for  war. 

My  deeds  were  gestures  in  the  wind, 
I  bent  the  way  of  a  poplar  bough, 

And  if  I  fell,  and  if  I  sinned, 

A  larger  breath  shall  lift  me  now. 

Where  trampling  armies  melt  the  snow 
And  wounded  men  clutch  withered  grass, 

Torn  from  myself  my  self  shall  go 
The  way  of  rivers  down  a  pass. 

It  will  not  be  the  sudden  blindness 

Of  a  beast's  awakening, 
But  that  impulsive  heat  of  kindness 

That  quickens  in  the  Spring. 

So,  with  the  rush  of  summer  rain 

I  shall  have  swept  across  the  earth, 
And  if  it  chance  myself  be  slain, 
My  self  shall  have  a  richer  birth. 

And,  He  was  true!  the  lads  will  say, 
And  all  the  world  shall  hear  of  me: 

The  poplar  leaf  is  not  so  gray, 
Or  mountain  mist  so  free. 

For  Leon  Feraru,  of  Rumania. 

84 


THE  TALE  FROM  FAERIELAND 


PASTORALE 

(Prelude  de  Bach  16  Clavier  bien  Tempere) 

COLIN  the  shepherd  on  a  day  of  Spring 
When  all  was  greenery  and  bourgeoning, 
Under  a  tree,  a  slender  tree  and  young 
That  had  not  yet  borne  fruit,  made  tender  song; 
And  ewe  and  ram  and  sportive  lambs  around 
With  bells  on  them  that  had  a  gentle  sound, 
Gamboled  in  peace,  while  overhead  the  sky 
Bore  curly  clouds  that  to  the  shepherd's  eye 
Were  like  a  flock  of  fleecy  little  sheep 
Pasturing  there  in  the  Lord's  holy  keep. 

Colin  the  shepherd  felt  in  wind  and  grass 
And  in  all  lovely  fleeting  things  that  pass 
The  breath  of  Beauty,  cool  upon  his  soul. 
His  heart  knew  not  as  yet  passion's  control: 
It  was  the  Spring  for  him,  as  for  the  year, 
As  for  the  little  tree  he  held  so  dear, 
As  for  the  flowers  that  unhindered  grew; 
And  his  full  being  gathered,  like  bright  dew, 
A  peacefulness  that  quieted  all  need, — 
Therefore  he  blew  upon  his  oaten  reed. 

For  Mrs.  Robert  L.  Taylor. 


87 


THE  TALE  FROM  FAERIELAND 

WHAT  time  I  lay  in  bed,  loth  to  arise, 
A  vision  came  to  me,  dazzling  mine  eyes. 

I  could  not  choose  but  lie  abed  all  day, 
Threading  sweet  words  to  weave  it  in  a  lay. 

( So  I  forgot  my  hunger,  and  the  deep 
Sadness  that  made  me  long  for  endless  sleep.) 

Not  any  of  the  ancient  tapestries 

Could  tell  a  tale  more  wonderful  than  this. 

For  here,  in  words  of  purple  and  of  gold, 
And  words  of  silk  and  silver,  Love  was  told. 

And  here  were  figures,  marvellously  drawn, 
Of  gods  and  men,  of  sunset  and  of  dawn. 

And  here  were  symbols,  such  as  Merlin  loves, 
A  Cross,  a  Herd  of  Lambs,  a  Flock  of  Doves. 

And  a  deep  labyrinth,  most  intricate, 
Through  whose  black  vaults  unwound  the  thread 
of  Fate. 

And  here  were  words,  like  roses;  and  loud  words, 
Like  to  the  sudden  flight  of  many  birds. 

And  woodland  words,  like  leaves,  that,  tremulous 
Forever,  made  the  verses  murmurous. 

88 


And  one  word  was  a  moon:  a  syllable 
Argent  and  chaste  and  fraught  with  many  a 
spell. 

And  one  word  was  a  sun,  and  it  was  round, 
And  it  was  warm,  and  had  a  golden  sound. 

And  one  soft  word  was  maiden-fleshed,  rose- 
white, 
Delicate-veined;  it  held  the  day  and  night. 

And  all  these  words  I  wove  into  a  lay, 

A  cloth  of  words,  that  made  my  sad  heart  gay. 

When  it  was  finished,  folding  it,  I  said, 
"The  King  will  buy  it!" — and  got  up  from  bed. 

"The  King  will  buy  my  lyric  tapestry, 
And  hang  it  on  his  wall  for  all  to  see, 

"So  that  the  fame  of  it  shall  travel  far, 
Even  to  where  the  holy  hermits  are, 

"Who,  pausing  at  their  matin  prayers,  will  say: 
flt  must  be  fairer  than  the  birth  of  day! 

ff(God  bless  the  hands  that  wove  it,  and  God 

bless 
The  soul  of  Man  that  dreamed  such  loveliness!3  * 

89 


And  I  repeated,  "He  will  buy  it  for 
A  treasure  of  his  golden  corridor. 

"And  he  will  wear  it  for  a  robe,  when  some 
Beautiful  Queen  to  visit  him  is  come. 

"It  shall  befit  him  as  its  petals  do 
A  lily  blossom  that  is  wet  with  dew. 

"It  shall  befit  him  as  the  veil  of  night 
Befits  a  day  that  was  too  gay  with  light. 

"It  shall  befit  him  as  its  carven  sheath 
Befits  a  mighty  sword  whose  touch  is  death. 

"It  shall  befit  him  so  that,  seeing  him, 
The  Queen  will  feel  her  very  soul  to  swim. 

"And  on  that  holiday  when  they  shall  wed, 
'Twill  serve  to  canopy  the  nuptial  bed." 

So  with  my  lyric  cloth  I  made  my  way 
Unto  the  Palace,  and  my  heart  was  gay. 

A  critic  met  me  at  the  guarded  door. 

"  'Twill  do,"  said  he,  "to  clean  the  kitchen  floor; 

"Or  else,  perhaps,  to  garb  the  lowlihead 
Of  kitchen  wenches,  for,  you  see,"  he  said, 

"The  colours  are  too  gaudy  and  the  style 
Is  obsolete." — His  lips  were  black  with  bile. 

90 


"The  subject  is  antique;  you  should  have  fraught 
Your    pretty    dreams    with    valiant,    modern 
thought. 

"Your  tale  is  vague;  it  should  be  definite! 
I  hardly  can  make  head  or  tail  of  it."- 

And  so  he  punned  and  jeered  for  a  long  while, 
But  crueler  than  all  was  his  wise  smile. 

"Do  not  despair,  for  you  are  young,"  he  said, 
"And   yet   can   learn." — The  heart  within  me 
bled. 

But  I  was  hungry,  so  for  copper  sold 
My  cloth  of  words  of  silver  and  of  gold. 

And  went  my  way,  the  way  that  outcasts  go, 
To  where  the  kind,  black-vestured  waters  flow. 

And  some  nights  later,  Cinderella  wore 
The  woof  that  I  had  woven.     Faerie  lore 

Says  that  it  hung  within  the  King's  great  hall 
A  wondrous  marvel  and  a  joy  to  all. 

And  pilgrims  came  from  all  the  lands  there  be, 
Beyond  the  desert  and  beyond  the  sea, 

To  glad  their  souls,  for  it  was  said  it  had 
The  power  to  make  Love-loving  people  glad. 

91 


And  one  bold  Jason,  loving  it  too  well, 
Wrought  many  deeds,  the  which  Greek  legends 
tell. 

And  so  it  passed  from  hand  to  hand,  nor  e'er 
Lost  its  delight,  but  always  seemed  more  fair. 

For  all  the  loveliness  for  which  men  long, 
The  charm  of  childhood  and  the  charm  of  song; 

The  innocence  of  things  that  live  and  die 
Rooted  on  earth,  yet  pining  for  the  sky;     . 

The  courage  and  the  faith  that  women  bear 
Who  conquer  pain  and  trample  on  despair; 

All  this  that  I  had  felt,  that  I  had  known, 
Was  threaded  in  that  cloth  that  all  can  own 

Who  by  the  grace  of  loving  much  are  given 
Hands  that  can  plant  on  earth  the  flowers  of 
Heaven. 

So  when  the  Christ  was  dead,  who  died  for  Love, 
Magdalen  brought  the  cloth  that  I  had  wove, 

And  Joseph  of  Arimathaea  dressed 

The  Sad  Man  with  it,  and  laid  Him  to  rest. 

Thus  for  three  days  God  wore  it,  and  the  third, 
When  at  the  piping  of  the  first  song  bird 

92 


Sweet  Jesus  rose,  a  glorious  sight  to  see, 
Lo!  round  His  shoulders  hung  my  tapestry. 

And  it  befit  Him  as  its  petals  do 
A  lily  blossom  that  is  wet  with  dew. 

And  it  befit  Him  as  the  starry  night 
Befits  a  day  that  has  been  gay  with  light. 

And  it  befit  Him  as  its  carven  sheath 
Befits  a  mighty  sword  whose  touch  is  death. 

And  He  will  wear  it  on  the  Judgement  Day, 
And  of  it  all  His  holy  Saints  will  say: 

"God  bless  the  hands  that  wove  it,  and  God  bless 
The  soul  of  Man  that  dreamed  such  loveliness!" 

For  Mrs.  Charles  E.  Schauffler. 


93 


TO  A  YOUNG  MAN 

(For  a  portrait  by  Giorgione  at  the  Royal  Gal 
lery }  Berlin) 

WHAT  sacring  fingers  smoothed  your  pulpy  hair, 
And  touched  your  lips  and  left  their  silence  there, 
That  with  a  cool  decorum  you  gaze  out 
Upon  a  world  that  holds  for  you  no  doubt 
Nor  any  restlessness? 

Youth  that  is  fleet, 
With  feet  that  ever  run  after  desire, 
Has  never  burned  within  you.    Prim  and  sweet, 
You  are  a  taper  still  unkissed  of  fire. 
And  though  I  love  you  much,  I  hardly  know 
Whether  to  cling  to  you,  or  let  you  go. 

For  Don  Pedro  Henriquez  Urena. 


THE  BOX  OF  SANDAL  WOOD 

I. 

THIS  poem  is  a  box  of  sandalwood. 

When  I  have  locked  and  sealed  it,  in  the  end, 

I  will  inscribe  it  thus:    Here  lies  my  Friend , 

All  that  was  true  of  her,  evil  and  good, 

And  in  a  hidden  closet  of  my  room, 

That  will  grow  damp  lacking  the  kindly  sun, 

This  box  shall  lie,  until  her  shrift  is  done, 

As  finally  concealed  as  in  a  tomb. 

So  for  a  tide, — perhaps  until  to-morrow, 

Perhaps  until  the  end  of  nights  and  days,— 

Keeping  all  joy  'twill  also  keep  all  sorrow. 

Befall  what  may,  when  Judgement  trumpets  call 

The  dead  shall  rise,  each  with  its  proper  face, 

And  she  from  out  this  box  or  not  at  all. 

II. 

Deep  in  the  bottom  I  will  lay  her  speech. 
It  used  to  be  a  gentle-mannered  child 
With  eyes  that  were  so  secretive  and  wild 
That  though  I  knew  whatever  books  can  teach 
I  stood  perplexed  before  it,  guessing  half 
And  missing  most  of  what  they  meant  to  say; 
And  it  had  rosy  legs  that  in  glad  play 
Would  show,  and  flee  me,  when  she  used  to 

laugh. 

But  most  I  loved  her  dear  embodied  voice 

95 


When  with  its  arms  outstretched  for  a  caress 
It  used  to  trip  to  me  across  the  noise 
Of  parlour  talk,  of  restaurant  or  street. 
Now  it  shall  lie,  returned  to  nothingness, 
Close-eyed,  with  folded  hands  and  quiet  feet. 

III. 

The  smell  of  her  was  a  persuasion.     No, 
Rather  it  was  a  furtive  urgency 
Akin  to  the  control  over  the  sea 
That  the  moon  has,  directing  ebb  and  flow. 
The  smell  of  her  that  troubled  me  so  much, 
That  made  my  flesh  a  forest  thick  with  fauns, 
That  kept  me  hard  awake  midnights  and  dawns 
Afevered  for  the  torture  of  her  touch; 
The  smell  of  her  I  sensed  in  every  wind, 
The  smell  of  her  that  made  my  nostrils  wide, 
The  smell  of  her  that  struck  me  sudden  blind, 
That  wronged  me  so ! — now  that  it  cannot  stir 
The  beast  that  bides  in  me,  I  put  beside 
That  innocence  that  was  the  voice  of  her. 

IV. 

The  colours  of  her  body  were  all  clean 

And  transparent  and  fine  and  tinged  with  gold; 

Her  bosom  had  the  pallour  of  an  old 

Kerchief  of  linen  woven  for  a  queen, 

Her  arms  a  whiteness  where  the  pulses  hushed; 

She  had  pearl  shadows  where  the  eyelids  swell, 

96 


And  in  her  eyes  gray  depths  of  miracle, 

And    dawn    itself    blushed    envious    when    she 

blushed. 

Ah  me,  that  all  of  this  I  must  forego ! 
My  eyes  are  pleasureless  under  the  sun: 
There  are  no  lovely  lights  on  sea  or  snow: 
Hers  only  were  the  colours  of  the  world ; 
I  fold  them  now,  as  when  a  war  is  done 
The  beaten  flags  are  taken  down  and  furled. 

V. 

Her  moods  were  dresses  fitly  made  and  worn: 
Short  fluffy  skirts  of  Columbine  for  joy, 
And  stiff  brocade  when  bent  upon  annoy, 
And  wide  majestic  hoops  to  clothe  her  scorn; 
And  for  her  wrath,  red  samite ;  for  her  pride, 
Fantastic  velvet;  but,  when  moods  were  done, 
Cool  woven  whiteness  made  her  seem  a  nun 
Or  first  communicant  or  virgin  bride. 
These  she  would  change  a  hundred  times  a  day 
Outrivalling  the  richness  of  the  sky, 
Until  it  seemed  her  mind  had  given  way 
Who  could  not  keep  for  long  one  character 
But  through  all  colours  rapidly  would  fly 
Making  a  rainbow  of  the  ways  of  her. 

VI. 

The  things  she  used  to  say  are  bric-a-brac 
And  jewelled  rings  and  Sevres  porcelain, 

97 


And  one  quick  phrase  that  used  to  give  me  pain 
A  Spanish  poniard  that  my  blood  made  black; 
And  she  said  things  like  cinnamon  and  figs, 
And  homely  things  all  woven  of  gray  wool, 
And  futile  anythings:  a  broken  spool, 
A  leadless  pencil  and  some  withered  twigs.  .  .  . 
Falsehoods  and  lies!     Of  all  the  things  she  said 
There's  not  a  single  one  her  image  bears: 
She  was  too  shrewd  to  speak  her  mind;  instead 
She  took  and  gave  what  nearest  lay  at  hand, 
So  made  it  seem  all  the  world's  things  were  hers, 
And,  found  out,  cried :  You  did  not  understand ! 

VII. 

Her  gestures  were  the  Springtime  in  a  tree 
That  has  no  leaves  but  only  swelling  tips, 
And  a  bird's  flight  across  her  eyes  and  lips, 
And  a  ship's  passage  through  a  misty  sea. 
Oh,  I  have  seen  her  face  rise  like  a  moon, 
And  droop  like  gillyflowers  in  the  rain; 
And  when  she  bore  my  weight  and  felt  the 

strain 

Hers  were  the  long-drawn  throbs  of  a  lagoon. 
Dance  could  portray  her;  words  are  much  too 

sure 

To  give  the  world  a  sense  of  her  unrest; 
Yet,  since  in  her  nothing  can  move  or  lure, 
Since  the  unstable  certainty  of  one  time 
Fails  in  its  purposes,  quiet  is  best 
And  I  should  make  a  musicless  dead  rhyme. 

98 


VIII. 

Our  long  caresses,  were  they  fruit  or  flame? 
Apples  of  fire,  certainly,  whose  juice 
Burned  my  lips  withered  for  another's  use. 
Oh  passionate  excess  no  night  could  tame! 
Bacch antic  ritual  where  in  arduous  toil, 
And  to  the  struggling  music  of  a  song, 
She  clipped  my  loins  of  roses,  sucked  my  tongue 
Of  honey-milk,  and  sapped  my  blood  of  oil! 
Lord  Christ,  we  were  no  Christians,  she  and  I. 
Pagans  we  were  who  knew  no  sin  in  this. 
We  used  to  wonder  why  you  had  to  die 
Who  were  so  young  and  sweet.     But  now  I 

know: 

Repentant  now  I  put  away  each  kiss, 
Seeds  dry  of  life  which  had  you  blessed  might 

grow. 

IX. 

There  were  in  her  cool  fountains  where  the  flocks 

That  Pan  controls  would  stir  the  soil  beneath 

And  darken  the  clean  water  with  their  breath; 

But  evermore  inviolate,  in  rocks 

High  inaccessible,  the  springs  would  flow 

Most  taintless  and  untaintable.     She  knew 

Eternal  innocence,  who,  being  true 

To  her  own  self,  no  utter  sin  could  know. 

She  was  not  made  of  wax,  she  was  not  made 

Of  wood  or  cloth;  she  was  all  human;  she 

99 


Could  feel,  and  want,  and  dare;  then  be  afraid 
And,  blinded,  fall.     Yet  ever  would  she  rise, 
Keeping  intact  her  gift  of  chastity, 
Shriven  in  God,  reproachless  in  men's  eyes. 

X. 

My  box  is  almost  full.     My  heart,  poor  thing, 
It  must  lie  here,  beside  her  innocence; 
It  ever  lacked,  not  wanted,  reticence; 
It  was  like  a  young  animal  in  the  Spring, 
Glad  of  the  world  and  panting  for  delight; 
Winged  I  think  it  was,  or  perhaps  showed 
Bright  onyx  horns,  I  cannot  tell:  the  road 
Was  always  steep,  and  it  was  always  night, 
So  whether  my  heart  flew  or  raced,  no  one 
May  rightly  say;  but  ever  in  her  wake 
It  followed  after.     Now  its  goal  is  won. 
Whoever  reads  this  poem,  Christian  friend, 
Pray  her  and  me  good  rest,  for  Mary's  sake: — 
I  loved,  and  she  is  dead:  this  is  the  end, 

For  Mr.  Ralph  Boeder. 


100 


CANDLE  LIGHT 

THE  seven  candles  spread  over  the  walls 
Their  seven  thicknesses  of  light.     I  wish 
That  I  could  fold  up  from  the  litten  wall 
The  seven  golden  cloths  of  candle  light. 

Of  these  I'd  make  a  banner,  or  a  sail; 
Perhaps  a  tent;  or  else,  against  my  death, 
A  precious  cerement,  for  this  light  is  cool 
And  would  not  plot  against  the  will  of  Death, 

For  Mr.  John  Pierrepont  Rice. 


101 


FLEUKD'Qll 

LIFE  is  a  flower 

Petalled  with  gold, 

And,  as  each  hour 
In  the  bells  is  tolled, 

And  shadows  crawl 
From  the  setting  sun, 

The  petals  fall 
One  by  one. 

For  Senor  Mariano  Brull. 


102 


SONG  OF  THE  POPPY 

—"POPPY  flower  growing  alone  in  a  field  of  rye, 
Will  you  be  my  true  love,  Poppy,  will  you  care 

for  me?" 
— "Mother  says  I  am  too  young,  but  I'd  love 

to  try; 

You  will  teach  me,  won't  you,  dear?" — "You 
will  see." 

—"Poppy  flower  withering,  withering  in  a  field 

of  snow, 
Will  you  be  my  true  love,  Poppy,  will  you  come 

with  me?" 

—"It's  rather  poor  I  am,  but  I'd  love  to  go ; 
It  won't  hurt  me,   will  it,   dear?" — "You  will 


see." 


— "Poppy  flower  withered,  withered  on  a  frozen 

lane, 
Will  you  be  my  true  love,  Poppy,  will  you  lie 

with  me?" 

— "Oh  I  would,  but  all  my  limbs  are  full  of  pain, 
Sun  and  wind  and  rain  have  had  their  way  with 

me!" 


103 


SONG  OF  THE  POPPY'S  LOVER 

WHEN  my  poppy  blossom 

Grew  wings  and  fled, 
Golden  turned  the  petals 

That  were  red. 

I  hate  money,  Mother, 

That  has  wronged  me  so! 
Soured  my  honey,  Mother, 

Blackened  my  snow. 


104 


ARIA  IN  G 

/  stole  a  pencil  from  a  beggar  that  was  blind. 
I  had  no  gold,,  I  had  no  silver.,  but  in  my  mind 
A  song  was  singing  for  the  beggar  that  was 
blind. 

I  am  forever  seeking  what  I  am  never  finding. 
All  I  may  do  in  the  evening  shall  not  be  bind 
ing- 
Oaths  or  vows, — for  the  darkness  has  a  way  of 
blinding. 

I  am  forever  finding  what  I  am  never  seeking: 
Women  who  are  always  laughing,  and  people 

speaking, 
And  doors  who  are  always  shutting  and  their 

hinges  creaking. 


105 


THE  SWORD  OF  WONDER 

Youth  calls,,  Love  calls,  and  the  last  of  all  is 

Death: 
Their  song  is  always  the  same,  and  their  even 

breath. 

Where  the  beaten  road  ends  suddenly,  a  little 

space 
Beyond  the  first  sparse  trees  of  the  untracked 

wood, 
There  I  saw  him,  first  and  last,  with  a  light 

around  his  face 
And  a  golden  glory  glowing  where  he  stood. 

I  was  not  surprised  to  find  him ;  long  ago 

I  had  heard  his  voice  that  called  to  me,  that  sang 

to  me: 
f< Twenty  paces  from  the  laurel  where  the  laurel- 

roses  grow 
There's  the  shining  sword  of  wonder  that  shall 

make  the  wide  world  free!" 

You  could  not  tell  the  country  where  he  came 

from; 
He  was  so  very  vague  and  dazzling  and  so  very 

young; 
Like  a  dream  he  would  vanish,  like  a  memory 

he  would  come, 
And  always,  always  singing  his  snatch  of  song. 

106 


Where  he  stood  he  smiled.  "And  are  you  com 
ing,  too?" 

I  told  him  that  I  could  not  for  I  had  wood  to  cut, 

And  wayward  sheep  to  care  for,  and  a  hundred 
things  to  do 

Or  ever  I  should  want  to  leave  my  woodland  hut. 

"Well,  it's  then  that  I  must  be  going,  for  the 

way  is  long,"  he  said, 
"And  I  must  put  the  woods  between  us  before 

it  can  be  dawn." 
I  begged  him  not  to  leave  me,  but  he  shook  his 

head 
And  smiled,  so  knowing-like  and  laughing,  and 

was  gone. 

Three  years,  perhaps,  or  more.     I  had  forgotten 

him. 

A  beggar  came,  so  weak,  so  very  torn  and  tired, 
His  breath  was  very  feeble  and  his  eyes  were 

twilight  dim, 
And  a  little  rest,  he  said,  was  all  that  he  desired. 

I  led  him  to  the  hut,  where  it  was  nice  and  warm; 

I  gave  him  wine  to  drink,  and  I  gave  him  cur 
rant  bread; 

And  I  asked  him  saying,  "If  it  is  no  sort  of  harm, 

I'd  like  to  know  your  name,"  and  "It's  Love," 
he  said. 

107 


So,  "Love"  I  thought,  "this  Love?"  and  took 

him  for  a  liar; 
For  though  I'd  never  seen  him  I  thought  I  knew 

Love's  face, 

With  the  roses  on  his  cheek  and  his  mouth  on  fire 
While   the   beggar's   face  was  haunted-like,   a 

lonely  ruined  place. 

When  he  had  done  with  eating  he  rose,  so  slow, 

"And  are  you  coming  with  me,"  he  said,  "and 
will  you  follow  me? 

Twenty  paces  from  the  laurel  where  the  laurel- 
roses  grow 

There's  the  shining  sword  of  wonder  that  shall 
make  the  wide  world  free!3' 

But  I  told  him  he  was  lying  and  I  told  him  to 

be  away; 
He  bowed  his  head  so  sadly.     "True,"  he  said, 

"the  path  is  long 
And  I  must  put  the  woods  between  us  before  it 

can  be  day." 
And  so  he  went  away,  forever,  with  his  snatch  of 

song. 

Oh,  strangers  came  and  strangers  went,  some 

borrowed  and  some  stole; 
My  years  like  ripened  fruit  they  gathered  and 

took  away, 

108 


And  it's  now  that  I  have  nothing  left  except  it 

be  my  soul 
And  a  prayer,  only  one  prayer,  for  the  birth  of 

day. 

When  the  birth  of  day  is  come,  then  I  will  go 

Across  the  untracked  wood  where  it  will  be  dawn 
for  me, 

Twenty  paces  from  the  laurel  where  the  laurel- 
roses  grow 

And  the  sword  of  wonder  shines  that  makes  the 
wide  world  free. 

For  Mr.  Raymond  Weeks. 


109 


FIRST  LOVE  REVIVED 

I 

SPRING  SONG  IN  WINTER 

TWELVE  times  the  Spring  put  blossoms  on  the 

trees 

And  stirred  the  Winter-weary  blood  of  young 
Hearts;  but  for  one  there  were  no  far  degrees 
Between  the  tides  of  silence  and  of  song, 
No  difference  in  meaning  between  snow 
Noiselessly  falling  and  the  whir  of  wings; 
The  calendar  had  brought  me  long  ago 
My  only  May,  and  Time  had  no  more  Springs. 
But  this  is  miracle  that  you  are  come! 
And  the  sweet  season  opens;  seeds  are  quick 
Inside  of  me,  and  birds  peck  at  my  side, 
And  all  myself  am  choral  that  was  dumb, 
And  straight  that  drooped,  and  healthy  that  was 

sick, 
Though  yesterday,  they  say,  the  Summer  died. 

II 

THE  CLAIM 

Such  a  long  time!  .  .  .  Had  you  not  been  the 

first 

I  would  have  surely,  now,  forgotten  you 
The  way  I  have  forgotten  the  dispersed 
Loves  that  have  intervened,  true  and  untrue, 

110 


Too  many  to  remember,  but  each  one 

Exactly  like  the  others  in  one  point: 

Being  too  easily  done  and  undone, 

Too  quick  to  offer  and  to  disappoint. 

But  you,  who  made  no  promises,  who  came 

Unheralded,  unsought;  from  whom  I  still 

Find  it  too  hard  to  name  what  I  could  want, — 

O  First  my  Love!  with  undiminished  claim 

You  take  lordly  possession  of  my  will 

And  make  me  my  own  heart's  blind  mendicant. 

Ill 

ON  HER  PHOTOGRAPH  WHEN  SHE  WAS  NINE 

You  too  have  changed.     Whoever  knows  you 

now— 

So  tall  and  stately,  with  a  haughty  grace 
In  that  most  courtly  way  in  which  you  bow — 
Can  only  see  the  beauty  of  your  face 
And  venture  on  your  loveliness  of  heart; 
But  when  this  print  was  taken,  still  untaught 
In  feigning  what  you  felt,  with  artless  art 
Your  every  attitude  revealed  your  thought. 
Then  was  no  choice  of  words,  no  argument 
To  be  discreetly  settled;  all  was  told 
With  unknown  lack  of  reticence  and  pride: 
Love's  noisy  awe  that  ever  came  and  went 
Was  thunder  could  not  crush  us  who  were  bold 
With  innocence  and  had  no  plots  to  hide. 

Ill 


IV 

THE  DIFFERENCE 

That  year  you  were  at  Biarritz  by  the  sea 
Painting  on  porcelain,  what  was  I  doing? 
Most  likely,  weary  with  the  heart  of  me, 
Wasting  my  heart  in  meaningless  quick  wooing. 
So  you  have  this  to  offer,  a  blue  plate 
That  keeps  the  sky  and  water  of  that  year, 
And  I,  the  dull  remembrance  of  a  date 
When  my  dumb  lips  moved  for  a  listless  ear. 
You  watched  the  sea  and  watched  the  sky,  and 

sky 

And  sea  were  kind  and  beautiful  to  you 
(I  think  that  you  have  grown  to  be  as  they!) ; 
But  by  the  Michigan,  where  the  mists  lie 
Like  age  upon  the  waters  gray  and  blue, 
My  heart  went  to  the  moon  in  blue  and  gray. 

V 

LOVE'S  SELFISHNESS 

You  say,  "If  I  had  died  in  the  meanwhile.  ..." 
And  I,  "If  you  had  married  I"    And  you  turn 
Your  face  to  me  and  with  a  serious  smile 
Dismiss  the  selfishness  of  my  concern. 
I  cannot  help  it,  child.    God  made  me  so. 
And  since  all  flesh  with  Death  at  last  must  bide, 
Rather  than  wed  I  wish  you  dead,  for  woe 
A  man  may  bear  who  fails  at  wounded  pride. 


Then  make  your  bed  where  chastity  may  keep 
Inviolate,  beyond  my  jealousy; 
With  certain  rest  and  virtuous  and  divine, 
Blessed  are  they  that  a  long  sleep  can  sleep; 
And  you  may  choose  your  comfort  among  three 
Such  beds :  your  maidenhood's,  and  Death's,  and 
mine. 

VI 

BEGINNING  OF  THE  END 

You  let  me  kiss  your  hand,  and  half  amused 
At  that  so  true,  so  pretty  lover's  play, 
Your  face  took  an  expression  that  has  bruised 
The  tender  flesh  of  all  my  thoughts  to-day; 
For  there  are  doubts  fall  heavier  than  a  rod 
And  pierce  deeper  than  knives.    Beaten  and  cut 
My  thoughts  of  you  go  beggar-like  to  God, 
For  on  their  grief  all  the  world's  doors  are  shut. 
Are  you  so  used  to  reverence  so  meek 
That  now  it  seems  superfluous  and  absurd? 
Or  was  I  blind  and  did  not  understand? — 
There  is  no  one  to  tell  me.     Should  I  speak, 
The  world  would  scorn  my  sentimental  word. 
I  wish  to  God  I  had  not  kissed  your  hand! 

VII 

THE  END 

So  large  was  that  first  love  it  held  the  moon 
And  sun  and  stars  within  its  arching  fold, 

113 


Yet  now,  alas!  one  vocal  afternoon 

Of  memories  suffice  it  to  be  told. 

So  flowers  bloom:  who  loved  the  flowers  keep 

Brown  withered  petals  and  a  faint  perfume; 

So  Waking  echoes  what  was  told  in  Sleep; 

And  so  are  epitaphs  writ  on  a  tomb. 

This  is  the  end.     First  Love  is  dead  and  gone. 

The  flesh  of  him  is  lilies  on  the  earth. 

His  soul  is  in  the  wind.     This  is  the  end. 

He  grew  and  died  the  way  a  rose  is  blown. 

This  is  the  end.     Another  love  has  birth. — 

I  hail  the  Queen!     But  oh,  my  Little  Friend! 

For  Maria  Teresa. 


THE  LITTLE  FOXES 

NOT  of  the  rocks  is  love  afraid, 

These  it  may  climb; 

But  the  small  sands  that  fret  it  and  abrade, 

The  minutes  of  inconsequential  time, 

The  little  words  of  undetected  ill, 

The  careless  deeds  not  of  your  fault  or  mine, 

These  tear  and  wear  it  out  until, 

With  impotent  sad  will, 

We  let  the  little  foxes  spoil  the  vine. 


115 


THE  SORRY  MADRIGAL 

So  like  the   Spring  she  was, — warm,  not  too 

warm, 

And  sweet  to  smell, — 
There  was  no  guile  in  her,  or  any  harm 
In  what  befell. 

Except  the  seasons  change,  flowers  to  fruit 
And  fruit  to  seed, 

And  seeds  must  break  or  ever  leaf  and  root 
Fulfill  their  need. 

For  Miss  Arma  Benedicta  Carolcm. 


116 


"I  WOULD  BE  TELLING  YOU" 

I  WOULD  be  telling  you 

How  the  tamarind  tree 
Is  blue  with  blossoms  now, — 

But  what  is  that  to  me? 

Or  what  the  garden  where 

Jasmine  is  glad  abloom 
Though  there  is  use  for  jasmine 

Only  to  deck  her  tomb? 

Rest  to  her  soul,  and  peace 

To  her  heart!     But  I 
Will  ease  my  heart  of  sorrow 

Under  an  alien  sky. 

I  have  no  wish  to  be 

Home  again,  now  home 
To  see  is  blind,  and  hidden 

To  know,  and  to  speak  dumb. 


117 


"HER    WISH    WAS    THAT    MYSELF 
SHOULD  BE" 

HER  wish  was  that  myself  should  be 
The  one  to  fold  her  arms  and  close 
Her  eyes.     That  was  her  hope  of  me. 
But  when  her  sun  of  darkness  rose, — 

The  day  that  made  all  daylight  gray 
In  my  house, — with  her  prayers  I 
Thanked  God  because  of  the  new  day 
Who  saw  it  in  a  foreign  sky. 

So  I  am  bent  on  blasphemy, 
And  beating  with  unholy  words 
At  God's  door,  I  will  not  let  be 
The  joy  in  her  that  is  the  Lord's. 


118 


TO  THOSE  WHO  HAVE  BEEN  INDIF 
FERENT  TO  THE  PAN  AMERICAN 
MOVEMENT 

"!T  is  DAWN." — Pan  American  Poetry. 

I  AM  the  man  who  dreamed  the  new  day  dawned 
And  so  arose  at  midnight  with  a  cry 
And  came  to  where  the  many  sleepers  lie 
Who  only  pushed  their  pillows  up  and  yawned 
And  fell  asleep  again.     Now  in  the  curled 
Abysses  of  the  dark  my  feet  are  fast 
Entangled,  and  I  wait  my  weary  last 
Impotent,  mad,  and  sick  of  all  the  world. 
Yea,  now  I  fall.     So  let  it  be.     I  know 
Somewhere  a  womb  is  pregnant  with  my  word: 
Bigging  it  bides  the  ripe  appointed  day; 
Somewhere  the  east  is  all  with  rose  aglow; 
But  you  shall  know  no  dawn  till  whip  and  sword 
And  good  blood  flowing  drive  your  sleep  away! 


119* 


"OH  GLORIOUS  SPENDTHRIFT  JOY!" 

OH  glorious  spendthrift  joy!  though  small  my 

purse, 

My  gestures  seem  to  sweep  the  universe, 
So  with  the  gift  my  largeness  of  goodwill 
Goes  out  of  me,  leaving  me  richer  still. 
Yet  with  the  beggars, — on  every  road,  at  all 
Cathedral  doorways,  morning,  evenfall 
And  dawn  again, — have  I  been  mendicant 
Who  nowhere  in  the  world  could  fill  the  want 
That  like  a  hungry  leech  sucks  at  my  side 
Or  wolf-toothed  rends  me  leaving  pale  and  wide 
The  gashes  on  my  flesh.  .  .  .  Aye,  clothed  in 

rags 

I  mourn,  and  pass,  under  the  pride  of  flags 
Through  which  I   see,   as  through  a  beggar's 

cloak, 
The  lean  flesh  of  the  world! — 

Who  was  it  spoke 

Of  charity?    Who  said  of  love  it  was 
Pulse  in  the  wind,  and  in  the  luminous 
Burst  of  the  morning,  sunlight,  and  in  green 
Gardens  the  fruit  that  makes  them  fair  beseen? 
Knew  he  the  hunger  moving  in  the  air, 
Howling  how  wildly  in  what  a  mad  despair 
Of  emptiness?    Knew  he  how  that  all  fruit 
Ever  insatiate  pushes  thirsty  root 
Into  the  quick  of  earth,  and  thirsty  leaf 
(Oh  tongue  never  indrawn!)  with  untold  grief 

120 


Unfolds  day  after  day  and  every  hour? 
Or  did  he  know  how  never  held  a  flower 
Dewdrop  sufficient  for  when  sunlight  burns? — 
This  then  is  charity,  this  love,  that  turns, 
Devouring,  on  that  it  used  to  feed!     Alas, 
That  grass  upon  the  earth,  earth  on  the  grass, 
In  what  a  whirl  of  living  without  end, 
Nourishment  find! — Thou  of  Assisi,  friend 
Intimate  of  all  things,  was  it  right  fair 
To  lure  sad  brother  Wolf  from  his  warm  lair 
And  teach  him  mongrel  tricks?     Think  how  all 

things 

Are  crueler  than  he:  no  bird  that  sings 
Giving  her  soul  in  melody,  but  takes 
Mine  own  in  payment,  drags  it  and  forsakes; 
No  scent  of  lily  and  no  hue  of  rose, 
No  water's  coolness  and  no  cool  repose 
Of  marble  carved,  but  for  the  alms  they  give 
Demand  of  me  all  life  that  I  can  live 
And  life  not  mine  for  which  I  seek  in  vain 
In  riot  and  in  quietness  and  in  pain, 
Until,  with  empty  hands  and  unpaid  debt, 
Bankrupt  to  the  world's  beauty,  I  regret 
For  what  a  little  thing,  vanished  so  quite, 
I  gave  away  indifference  and  the  right 
To  dwell  untroubled,  self-sufficient,  sure.  .  .  . 

Give  over  loving,  heart  of  me!  procure 
Yourself  a  sleeping  place  in  some  deep  ground 
Where  you  may  know  no  music,  nor  the  sound 

121 


Of  weeping.     Give  over  giving,  heart  of  me! 
Give  over  everything!     That  day  shall  be 
When,  rested  quite,  you  may  awake  again, 
A  rich,  strong  heart  among  the  hearts  of  men, 
And  capable  of  beauty  and  despair; 
But  you  are  too  weak  now!     Say  the  prayer 
Your  Mother  taught  you,  and  lest  nightmares 

ride 

Your  little  sleep,  turn  to  the  other  side, 
Like  a  good  child,  my  heart !  .  .  . 

For  Don  Rufino  Gonzalez  Mesa. 


THE  MODERN  EVE 

So  finely  had  they  thrilled,  in  lusty  fire 
The  sturdy  metals  of  their  flesh  became 
One  single  molten  heap  of  glowing  flame, 
And  like  a  flame  they  heaved  until  desire, 
Cooling  with  many  shivers  and  long  breath, 
Left  them  aweary  on  that  Autumn  hill; 
And  suddenly  they  noticed  it  was  chill, 
And  morning  dawning,  and  she  thought  of  death. 
"If  it  should  be,"  she  thought,  "then  it  must 

die!" 

So  scorned  the  man  where  selfishly  he  lay, 
A  used,  exhausted  thing  under  the  sky; 
And  plucked  a  pear  and  ate  it  hungrily, 
And  did  not  fear  the  coming  of  the  day: 
Her  child  was  twenty  fathoms  undersea. 


JOY 

JOY  and  I  together 

On  a  soft  warm  bed 
Dreamed  of  pleasant  weather 

Lying  head  to  head. 

Joy  and  I  together 

Kissed  till  dawn  was  red: 
— "Now  be  still,  my  darling, 

I  am  tired,"  Joy  said. 

When  I  woke,  a  shutter 
Made  a  creaking  noise; 

I  saw  a  candle  splutter; 
Heard  a  leaden  voice.  .  .  . 

Noon  it  was  of  daytime, 
All  the  world  was  gold. 

— "Now  be  still,  my  darling, 
Honey  must  be  sold; 

"Though  the  bees  are  hungry, 
Honey  must  be  sold!" 

Noon  it  was  of  daytime 
And  an  old  bell  tolled1. 

For  Don  Martin  Luis  Guzman. 


HUNGER  IN  THE  CITY 

WHERE  did  Satan  haunt  me, 

When  did  he  tempt  me  and  subdue? 
In  the  city,  when  I  was  lonely 
And  hungry, — O  my  Heart,  wrhen  I  had  only 
My  shadow  to  lie  beside  me,  and  the  weight  of 
you! 

How  did  Satan  come 

And  how  did  he  appear? 
He  stole  into  my  soul, 
Into  my  soul  and  into  my  blood  he  stole, 
I  only  felt  him,  felt  him,  I  did  not  see  or  hear. 

First  like  a  pleasant  weakness, 

A  feverish,  warm  thrill, 
Then  pain,  O  Heart,  not  anywhere 
Within  me,  but  close  about  me  in  the  air, 
Blowing  over  the  city  like  a  wet  wind  and  chill. 

And  after  that  a  darkness 

Heavier  than  lead, 
All  full  of  writhing  things 
And  ineffectual  vomitings 
And  voices  wailing,  wailing,  We  are  damned 
and  dead! 


125 


THE  MAKER  OF  RED  CLAY  JARS 

I 

JARS 

THIS  is  the  place  I  meant,  my  place.    You  see, 
The  soil  is  barren  and  uncommon  red: 
There  are  no  flowers  for  the  like  of  me 
To  have  a  lover  take  them  .from  my  head. 
This  clay  is  only  good  for  making  jars; 
They  .are  so  pretty,  'tis  a  grief  to  know 
Their  mouths  are  always  gaping  at  the  stars, 
Their  hearts  are  full  of  all  the  winds  that  blow. 

II 

SONG 

In  a  red  clay  jar, 

Ashes  of  the  dead; 
In  a  red  clay  jar, 

In  a  red  clay  jar. 

When  the  Summer  comes 

Roses  will  bloom  red 
From  the  gray,  gray  ashes 

In  the  red  clay  jar. 

Oh  my  heart  is  broken, 

And  my  youth  is  fled, 
All  my  life  is  buried 

In  a  red  clay  jar, 

126 


In  a  red  clay  jar, — 
Jesu  pity  me! 

Ill 

To  THE  GARDENER 

Won't  you  let  me  go  into  your  garden  a  little 

while  ? 
I  would  like  to  see  a  flower-bed;  I  would  like  to 

see 

Black  earth,  green  grass,  white  lilies  file  on  file 
And  maybe  little  blossoms  falling  from  a  tree. 

Won't  you  let  me  pluck  a  little  flower?  just  only 

one! 
I  would  like  to  put  it  on  my  hair;  I  would  like 

to  think 

It's  this  that  would  have  stopped  him  in  the  sun 
And  moved  his  thirst  to  ask  me  for  a  long  cool 

drink. 

IV 

HEARD  IN  THE  WIND 

-"I  make  clay  jars,  red  clay,  all  red,  and  you?" 
— "I  make  clay  jars,  green  clay,  and  some  is 

blue." 
— "Some  folks  are  born  with  all  that  luck,  I 

say!" 
— "I'd  give  my  green  and  blue  for  your  red 

clay!" 

For  Mr.  Joseph  Edgar  Chamberlain. 

127 


DELGADINA 

THERE  was  a  king  that  ruled  in  Spain, 
And  vines  had  he  were  fair  beseen, 

And  orchards  heavy  with  their  fruit, 
And  proud  and  tall  and  fair  his  queen. 

The  king  and  queen  were  on  their  throne, 
About  them  sat  their  daughters  three; 

Below,  the  pages  pressed  the  grapes, 
And  all  around  them  was  minstrelsy. 

The  king,  he  drank  and  he  drank  again: 
Like  litten  lamps  his  glances  burn, 

Like  seaport  lamps  that  slowly  move 
And  light  up  that  on  which  they  turn. 

He  will  not  look  upon  the  queen, 
Nor  on  the  elder  sisters  fair, 

But  on  the  youngest  princess  of  all 
He  turns  the  heavy  drunken  stare. 

He  will  not  glance  upon  the  queen, 
Nor  on  the  elder  daughters  there, 

Virgin  of  Mercy,  what  can  it  mean, 
The  heavy  drunkenness  of  his  stare? 

— "Ah,  Delgadina,  my  Delgadina, 
Full  sweet  are  you  about  the  waist!" 

The  queen,  she  will  not  look  for  scorn; 
The  little  princess  breathes  in  haste. 

128 


— "Ah,  Delgadina,  my  Delgadina, 
The  length  of  you  will  fit  my  bed!" 

The  sisters  two  push  up  their  lips; 
The  little  princess  hangs  her  head. 

— "Ah,  Delgadina,  my  Delgadina, 

Your  breasts  are  ripe,  right  well  I  see!" 

Then  up  and  spake  the  little  princess : 
— "Oh  fie,  and  turn  that  look  from  me! 

"It  is  of  garden  trees  you  speak, 

Of  linen  woven  cool  and  fine, 
Of  the  ripe  fruit  your  orchards  bear 

And  of  the  grape  upon  your  vine!" 

— "I  speak  of  you,  my  Delgadina, 
And  you  shall  lie  with  me  this  day!" 

The  queen,  she  will  not  look  for  scorn; 
The  sisters  two  they  look  away. 

—"Nay,  father,  rather  I  were  dead 
Or  ever  such  a  shame  should  be!" 

—"Then  in  the  tower  shall  you  bide 
Until  you  will  to  lie  with  me!" 

High  is  the  tower  and  dark  within, 
But  through  a  winghole  for  a  bird, 

Below  the  tower  and  all  about 
The  little  princess  can  be  heard. 

129 


— "Mother,  my  mother,  where  you  lie 
Combing  your  hair,  combing  your  hair, 

If  you  be  true  my  mother  mine 
Give  me  to  drink! 


"Sisters,  my  sisters,  where  you  sit 

Weaving  your  veils,  weaving  your  veils, 

If  you  be  true  my  sisters  mine 
Give  me  to  drink!" 

The  queen,  she  will  not  look  for  scorn; 

The  sisters  two  push  up  their  lip; 
Into  the  cup  the  king's  hands  hold 

The  white  grape  and  the  red  grape  drip. 

— "Father,  my  father,  where  you  are 
Filling  your  cup,  filling  your  cup, 

If  you  be  true  my  father  mine 
Give  me  to  drink!" 

Up  rose  the  king  and  loud  his  word : 

— "Unlock  the  tower!     Give  her  my  cup!3 

The  pages  clambered  up  the  stairs, 
Dead  is  the  burthen  they  take  up. 

From  either  breast  a  milk-white  dove, 

From  either  lip  a  butterfly 
Opened  their  wings  and  flew  away, 

But  lilies  drooped  on  either  eye. 

130 


The  queen,  she  did  not  look  for  scorn, 
The  sisters  two  pushed  up  their  lip, 

And  a  madness  fell  upon  the  king 

Watching  the  white  and  red  grape  drip. 

For  Mr.  Daniel  E.  Wheeler. 


OF  TIME  AND  SONG 

THE  years  are  like  young  fruit-trees,  bearing 

days. 

The  days  are  fruit  on  which  the  sunlight  plays 
And  they  grow  ripe  and  fall  in  their  due  time 
Just  as  the  apple  does,  just  as  the  lime 
Or  any  fruit  whatever.     And  as  fruit, 
Returning  to  the  earth,  give  to  the  root 
That  fed  the  tree  that  bore  them  a  new  strength, 
So  all  our  yesterdays,  dissolved  at  length 
Into  the  soil  of  everlasting  time, 
Make  rich  the  present. 

In  my  arms  of  rhyme 
I  bring  a  harvest  of  my  gathering. 
Songs  like  pomegranates,  songs  like  lovely  fruit, 
That  it  was  mine  to  pluck  away,  or  sing. 
And  these  shall  waste  to  strengthen  some  young 

root 

In  days  to  be,  as  songs  of  singers  gone 
Nourished  the  songs  I  sing. 

Thus,  on  and  on, 
All  days  are  somehow  linked,  all  songs  are  one. 


132 


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